


The Long Way Home

by zinjadu



Series: In a house on a hill by the sea [1]
Category: Dragon Age (Video Games), Dragon Age II, Dragon Age: Inquisition, Dragon Age: Origins, Dragon Age: Origins - Awakening
Genre: Action/Adventure, Alistair kicking ass, Arguing, Beginnings, Bigotry & Prejudice, Childbirth, Dadistair, Domestic Fluff, Endings, F/M, Family, Family Feels, Family Reunions, Feastday, Ferelden, Fights, Fluff and Angst, Friendship, Gen, Grey Wardens, Home, Home Invasion, Love, Making Up, Parenthood, Pregnancy, Scrappy Tabris, Slice of Life, Summerday, The Cure
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-05-11
Updated: 2018-09-21
Packaged: 2019-05-05 07:40:21
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 21
Words: 138,165
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/14613042
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/zinjadu/pseuds/zinjadu
Summary: Warden-Commander Tabris has returned from her search for the cure, but Alistair is still at the Warden fortress of Weisshaupt.  Determined to live andwiththe man she loves, she seeks him out with the help of some friends, and then two (former) Wardens try to make a quiet life for themselves far away from Wardens, royalty, and world-ending events.  Only there were more surprises in front of them than they could have ever expected.Fic starts out with a bit of action then takes a sharp turn into slice of life.Many thanks to my beta readers, rachaar, redpandadragon, rancho, hella_elle, Steggo, and thank you to everyone on the Dragon Age subreddit for their encouragement to write.  Whether you knew it or not at the time, you guys were all part of this.  <3





	1. Between Nightmares and Dreams

Caitwyn stood on the bow of the ship, her dark hair streaming behind her in the sea wind as she combed it back with one dark hand.  She hadn’t worn it long in years, but her time in the west had been rather extended, and she had returned to the simple expediency of tying it back rather than trying to keep it short.  Her eyes scanning the horizon, she tracked the line of the dormant sealed Breech in the sky. Guilt gnawed at her. She should have been there, but the Taint did wait for the world to be peaceful.  It consumed her, consumed every Warden, day by day, until it would eventually drive her down into the dark. At least the Inquisition had done the job they set out to do and the sky hadn’t swallowed the world whole.  It would have been problematic to say the least.

Yet, when her thoughts wandered to what awaited her, the fate of all Grey Wardens.  She recalled the Broodmother in the Deep Roads and the Mother near Amaranthine, and that they had once been  _ women _ .  How many female  Wardens had gone to the Deep Roads during their Calling only to be turned in to the very thing they had fought?  Worse, to  _ birth _ the abominations that came with the Blight?  The questions haunted her, plaguing her mind for years. 

Once, she had asked Alistair to kill her rather than let her be dragged away.

That had been an argument, or a  _ discussion _ as he called their occasional spats.  She had insisted, pressed, pushed, and he had dug his heels in, saying they had to find another way, that he’d never let it come to that.  The more they had fought about it, the angrier she became, insisting he could never understand, spitting accusations at him like an angry cat.  But worse was the fear, sinking its claws into her, a vision of being dragged into the dark a persistent nightmare, and she had woken up in the middle of the night, cold with sweat one too many times in their bed.

She had only relented after he had shouted over her, voice breaking, tears in his eyes, and he told her what  _ he  _ feared.  His terrible fear not merely that he would have to kill her one day, but that he would fail to do so.  That come the day, he would not be able to spare her from her worst nightmare. Instead, she had called upon Zevran and he had helped her make a poison capsule that she carried on her at all times.  It hung around her neck in a small capsule, her death, and neither she or Alistair had liked it being there.

The future that awaited her, awaited both of them in the Deep Roads, was what made her decide to try looking for answers.  Avernus still gave her reports now and again, but his research was slow, hampered by the restrictions she had imposed upon him years ago.  Restrictions she still did not have the heart to remove, even now. So she had gone west, leaving Alistair in charge of the Ferelden Wardens at the Vigil.  Her departure had been another “discussion,” but she had relented in the end and agreed to take a companion along.

“How are you doing there, Merrill?” she asked, turning to her most recent companion as they sailed back to Kirkwall.  The Dalish mage had first struck Caitwyn as more than a bit soft, but she had learned in their time together that though Merrill could seem younger than she was, with her short black hair and wide eyes, Merrill was no pushover.  Not when it came to what mattered to her. Now, however, she leaned over the railing, looking more than a little green. She had not taken well to sailing, and as a result they had spent the entire journey on the foredeck. 

“Oh, I’m doing alright, I think.  I haven’t thrown up today, and I even managed to keep food down, though I think I’ve terribly disappointed the fish,” Merrill rambled, and Caitwyn patted the other woman gently on the back.

“I’m sure the fish will find another food source,” she said reassuringly.  Merrill let out a little laugh, then looked out over the blue of the sea, Kirkwall rearing in to view.  It was an ugly city, even uglier now after everything that had happened, but it was home for Merrill. 

“I’m sorry I could… I couldn’t do more to help you,” Merrill said softly, her large green eyes full of sympathy.

“What we found could still be useful, and without you, I wouldn’t have been able to know what was important and what wasn’t,” Caitwyn said, fighting down the hollow sense of disappointment.  They had found  _ something _ , something old, ancient really.  Merrill had tried to explain to Caitwyn about blood magic, sympathetic resonance, and all sorts of other things, but Cait was no mage.  Merrill had been clear on one thing: the Joining was a rite of blood magic in and of itself. 

Caitwyn had immediately pushed to try the cure, with herself as a test subject, but Merrill had put up a surprising amount of resistance.  Something about a single mage not being able to handle the taint and keep her alive at the same time.

“Maybe, if we knew a healer.” Merrill had said at their camp, and Caitwyn knew who she was referring to.  It was not the first time Caitwyn mentally damned the man, and she doubted it would be her last.

But now, here, they were almost back to Kirkwall, and Merrill’s part in this was done, unless Caitwyn could find another mage with healing ability that she trusted without question.  In the aftermath the mage rebellion such mages were few and far between. Simple, when healers had been so plentiful before, too.

The boat docked, and Caitwyn saw Merrill to her home in the Alienage, though she hated walking through the cramped, narrow streets, seeing the life spilling out of every home because there wasn’t enough space inside the home for everyone, and the choking scent of poverty.  She tried not to think about the last time she was in Denerim, the last time she had seen Shianni, her father, and Soris and his family. Too long. Too long and still she had other things to do.

“ _ Dareth shiral, _ Caitwyn,” Merrill said, and Caitwyn did smile then, a small smile to be sure, but an honest one all the same.  Merrill had managed to fill their travel time by teaching Caitwyn all she could of the Dalish, including their language.

“ _ Dareth shiral _ , Merrill.   _ Ma serannas _ ,” Caitwyn said, and turned to go, to get back on a ship and make for Amaranthine, home, where she hoped to find Alistair waiting.  She had been too long out of touch, moving around too much for letters to find her. And once the Inquisition had not been able to get her to return east, they had stopped dogging her steps entirely.  She made a mental note to thank Leliana for that kindness at least.

On her way to the docks through Lowtown, she kept her guard up, knowing that though she was obviously armed, no one necessarily knew what the Hero of Ferelden looked like: six-feet tall with a bow made of silver or something like that, if the stories she overheard were anything to go by.  Few suspected a slightly built elven woman to be the one who had killed an Archdemon. 

Just as she descended the stairs, she felt eyes on her, and sure enough at the landing to the docks, three burly looking dwarves waited with obvious intent, though they were dressed more like traders than cut-purses.  Still, she made sure the knife at her back was free and her bow-string was taut, she inclined her head.

“Can I help you?” she asked, keeping her distance and shifting her weight to the balls of her feet.

“We have been asked to deliver a letter to you,” the leader said.  Caitwyn remained silent, raising an eyebrow and holding out her hand.  The dwarf was forced to move closer to her, but he pulled no tricks and dropped a slip of paper in her hand.  Unfolding it with her thumb, Caitwyn saw that there was only one line there.

_ There’s some things you need to know.  –V _

“Very well,” she said, eyeing the dwarf.  “Let’s go see Varric.”

 

* * *

“And that’s the long and short of it, really,” Varric summed up, leaning back in his seat, watching her over steepled fingers.  Her heart hammered in her chest. She had missed so much, but her heart shuddered at the idea of Marian finally meeting an enemy she could not outright defeat.  The Breach had been closed once and for all, and Inquisitor Treveylan had defeated Corypheus, healing the world. In that process deeper, older truths had been revealed.  To some, not all, but Varric was among those who had been there to know.

Her selfish heart, however, focused on two main points.  One, Morrigan had done something possibly dangerous with ancient magics, a ritual she had completed without knowing the full consequences of her actions.  And two, Alistair had not yet returned from Weisshaupt. While there was little she could do about Morrigan at present—her old friend always more stubborn than necessary—she could do something about Alistair’s current situation.  

By all accounts he had gone to report in and hold down the fort, but that he had not returned since sent a chill down her spine.  The First Warden had tried to discover for years how they had survived their encounter with the Archdeamon. There had been no formal inquiry, but agents had tried to infiltrate the Vigil and the ranks of the Ferelden Wardens, hoping to gain her trust and uncover their secret.  All their secrets. She had managed to keep the truth hidden, but there was no way he would let Alistair go without obtaining the information he wanted most desperately. 

The way out of every Warden’s fate.

“I’m sorry,” she said simply, knowing it needed to be said, but it would not be enough.  Varric regarded at her for a long moment, his normally composed demeanor fraying at the edges.  His rooms were tidy, but a pile of crumpled papers consumed one portion of his desk, and the fireplace had more than a reasonable amount of ashes.  As for Varric himself, his hair was a touch unkempt, and his stubble was more pronounced than usual. Worst of all were his eyes. His tired, lonely eyes.  But then he sighed, pushing his grief down and away.

“Thank you, Warden, I appreciate it, but I’m sure you have other concerns at the forefront of your mind.  The Inquisition is still going about its business, last I heard the Inquisitor’s putting down some Darkspawn.  Handy, since the Wardens have disappeared back into their fortress,” he drawled, shaking his head. “It’s messed up, and I don’t know who can really fix it.”

“It might be beyond fixing,” she said, “but thank you for this information, Varric.  Without it…” She shook her head, trying not to think of the time she would have lost going back to Amaranthine, looking for Alistair, trying to find out what had happened to him after he’d parted ways with the Inquisition.

“Hey, he helped us out, and I don’t… I don’t blame him for what happened.  Not anymore at least,” Varric said. Caitwyn knew better than to outstay her welcome, and as for the matter of Hawke, Caitwyn could see there was little comfort anyone could give to the dwarf.  Caitwyn had her suspicions about them, but they had both been oddly private about it. Granted, she was hardly one to judge. She stood, and made to leave, but Varric called out to her.

“You remember when we first met?” he asked.  She turned, tilting her head, recalling that day.

“I shot two arrows in to the ground at Marian’s feet, demanded to know where Anders was, and damn near started a pointless fight,” Caitwyn admitted.  Not one of her finer moments, but she had been in a cold rage once she learned who had destroyed Kirkwall’s Chantry. Varric, Aveline and Bethany, though she hadn’t known who they were then, had tensed, ready to fight, but then.  “Alistair stepped in between us, and then you did, too. Cooler heads prevailed.”

“Right, well.  I thought for a long time I didn’t want to know where Blondie had gotten himself to, but then everything happened with the Inquisition and the Wardens, and you were borrowing Daisy for a bit, so I put out feelers.  Very, very discreet feelers.” Varric’s jaw clenched, his hazel eyes flaring with rarely seen rage. “Since I’m betting you’re about to go assault Weisshaupt and attempt the most insane breakout in history, you might need a little magical assistance.  And I think we’d both rather it wasn’t Daisy you were dragging to that place.”

Caitwyn’s jaw clenched.  Anders. Once a friend, but now she didn’t know what he had become.  Being possessed by Justice must have wrought most of the changes during his time in Kirkwall.  She had only ever known Anders and Justice as their own selves, and though Wynne had been in the same situation, where the old mage had managed her condition, Anders and Justice had become… something else.  Not a demon, maybe, but not something entirely human or spirit either. But it was more than his magical ability that she was interested in. With Wynne passed on,  _ Maker rest your soul,  _ Anders was the only healer in all of Thedas who might be able to attempt the second half of the cleansing she sought.  And who knows what the Wardens might have done to Alistair in their fortress.

Healing might be very, very necessary.

“No, no, I would rather not, you’re right,” she agreed.  “The elves here need her anyway. She’s a good sort. In spite of what’s happened around her, she has a good heart.”

“She does at that,” Varric said.  He pushed away from the table and went to his desk, shooting her a quick look, silently asking her to turn her back.  She did so, heard several clicks, some shuffling of papers, a few more clicks, and then his booted feet walking around her on the stone floor.  He held out a folded map. She took it, and saw a path marked out. “I assume, non-magical help, you can organize on your own.”

“Yes, yes I can.”  She folded the map back up and stowed it in one of her many pockets.

“Good.”  He drew in a breath, squaring his shoulders.  “Now, you better get out of here. It’s a long way to the Anderfels.”

“Good-bye, Varric, and… be well.  As well you can be,” she said, and for a moment, his shoulders sagged, and a sorrow beyond words flickered across his features.

“And you, Caitwyn.  I hope you find what you’re looking for,” he said, and she was gone.  There was other help she could obtain, and she had to find it before she tracked down the man who had set the world on fire, who was also perhaps the only person who could help save her life.  Hers and the life of the man she loved.

Her mind turning over multiple plans, she was thankful that she thought of something before she left Kirkwall.  Running back to Varric’s estate, she asked him for one more favor, and she hoped her plan would work. Otherwise, they wouldn’t get very far in the end.

 

* * *

“My dear Warden, if you wanted me, you did not need to resort to such measures,” Zevran teased, sitting up in his narrow bed in the room he occupied.  Her old friend was currently set up in a lovely little Orlesian chateau, his trail was easy enough to follow. He’d taught her how to track people down during the Blight with himself as the quarry.  Caitwyn wasn’t sure if he was guesting here, in bed with one of the nobles, or plying his usual trade. Or a little bit of everything. She didn’t much care, though, and was more concerned with whether or not he would leave his current comforts behind to help her.  He was naked to the waist, and probably entirely naked underneath the covers. This was, after all, Zevran. A smile curved his lips, and his eyes were playful even in the moon-lit room.

“I think Alistair is being held by the Wardens of Weisshaupt, and I’m going to go break him out,” she said without preamble.  Zevran’s grin fell away, but his eyes were still bright, though it was not a teasing brightness, rather the intense, focused brightness of a man on a mission.  He stood, the covers falling away to reveal that yes, he did sleep in the nude. Caitwyn averted her eyes with a sigh as he pulled on his clothes and armor.

It was a mark of how seriously Zevran took the situation that he didn’t tease her for looking away.  He cleared his throat, and she turned back to him now that he was fully clothed, and he gathered up the rest of his things, knives and poisons and other little accoutrements of his trade. 

“Will we have any other assistance? No offence, my dear.  You and I, we are most accomplished of course, but if Alistair is not well enough to be moved, hm.  He is a rather tall man, and it will not be easy to move him, especially if we have to fight our way out.” 

“There’s another person we need to go find, first, but I’m counting on us being quick and quiet.  Shadows. If we tried to fight all the Wardens in the fortress, we’d need an army, which I don’t have anyway.  No, this is one of our usual missions, Zevran, a toss of the dice.”

“Well, then,” he said, sheathing the last of his knives, smile wide and confident.  “It will be just like old times. Excellent.”

“You know, Zevran, I almost believe you really mean that,” she said, her grin as sharp as daggers.  He laughed. He rubbed his hands together in anticipation of what would be, probably, the most daring rescue attempt in recent history.

“Now, tell me, dear Cait, who else are we bringing with us?”

 

* * *

“Anders,” Caitwyn said, voice flat.  He stumbled out of the cave, the red stone baking under the harsh glare of the desert sun.  Holding a hand high to shield his eyes from the harsh glare of the desert sun, it took him a few moments to adjust to the light.  When he was finally able to see her properly, he stumbled backwards, falling to his knees.

“So you’ve finally come.  I thought you’d disappeared, or died, but I should have known better.  Go on, then, do it, end it, please.” His voice was raw from disuse, hair and clothes matted, body thin and weak, but his eyes were the worst.  Haunted, staring but not seeing the world around him, focused on a scene in his own twisted mind.

“No,” she sighed.  “I’m not here to kill you.”

“Why not?” he spat.

“I am inclined to agree,” Zevran said, voice hard.  Anders flinched back as he noticed for the first time she had not come to him alone.  “Are you sure we could not attempt to find Morrigan? You did find her once before, you said.”  Though Zevran had stayed out of much of the war, few people in the world had no opinion on Anders at all.  The Crow cast a hard-eyed glare back at the man, his contempt clear. Zevran was not one to judge murder, but fervent belief Anders had once held that he was delivering justice was too far even for the assassin.  Murder was one thing, a mad, self styled holy crusade was another.

Caitwyn shook her head.

“Only because she let me.  Besides, I doubt she’d want to go anywhere near where we’re headed,” she said.  There was, she well knew, no way Morrigan would bring her son within a hundred miles of the Warden stronghold.  She then turned back to the cringing figure before her. “And right now, I need you alive.”

“For what?  A trial?” Anders asked, mockingly.

“No, a mission.  Alistair is likely held prisoner at Weisshaupt, and they’re up to something else as well.  We might need a mage to handle some of the defenses, and if Alistair is alive, probably a healer as well.”  She did not mention the other task she might need him for, and neither had she told Zevran of the other goal she had in mind.  One thing at a time, get Alistair back first. After everything they had endured together, being cleansed without him would be an empty victory.

She didn’t think she’d even want it, then.

“You would trust me… after what I did, everything… why?”  Anders looked down, lost and confused, barely able to meet her eyes.

“Because,” she started, forcing his face up to look her in the eye, “you owe me a great deal.  This is me collecting. Understand?” Anders could only stare at her, eyes wide, as though seeing for the first time in a long time.  He nodded. Caitwyn roughly pushed his face away.

“Good.  If you have anything you need, get it, otherwise, we’re on the move,” she ordered.  With that, the blonde mage scrambled back into his cave, emerging with a twisted staff of wood from one of the scrub trees that grew out in these harsh lands, topped with a shard of some kind she could not identify.  Anders followed her and Zevran, keeping himself apart from them, head down, moving mechanically, but they were moving. They had their mage, and they turned their feet north.

It was several days later, when Anders was more properly fed, washed and clothed, that Caitwyn sat down beside him.  Zevran had avoided him entirely, if only because of the smell, though there were plenty of other reasons to not talk to the man who had started a war and killed innocents.  A man who was still, unless she missed her guess, a walking abomination. Anders glanced at her cautiously as she sat, taking care to not give her any reason to feather his chest with arrows.

He kept quiet, as he was not sure if he should speak or wait for her to begin.  She watched him for a moment, her green eyes hard. Then she shook her head, as though dismissing an errant thought.

“There are lots of things I could ask, maybe even demand that you answer,” she said, voice quiet. 

“You would not need to demand.  I would answer you,” he said, a constant note of shame in his voice.

“Oh, I’m sure you have answers to many questions.  Why you took on Justice, why you fled to Kirkwall, why you worked in secret there, why you befriended Hawke, and even why you blew up the Chantry.  You’ve got lots of answers to questions, but I think there’s one important question you didn’t consider.” Anders said nothing and did his best to stay absolutely still, the stillness of a prey animal, a stalked creature.  Then, unexpectedly, Caitwyn’s expression softened.

“Why didn’t you talk to me?” she asked, voice all but a whisper.  “All this pain, all this suffering, and you never once asked me for help.  You took up Justice, and you kept it secret. You were having problems with the other Wardens, and you said nothing.  So you left. And even when you knew you were slipping, falling into madness, never once did it cross your mind that I could help you.  Not one. Damned. Time,” she said, biting out the last words.

“We were friends once, for a time.  I saved you from Templars, I helped you get rid of your phylactery.  You stood beside me to face the Mother and the Architect, and I let you have that cat!  Damn it, I thought the cat was cute, and I liked it. So why? Why did you not talk to me from the very first, Anders?  Did you think I would not or could not understand? That I would cast you out as evil? Did you think me so small-minded as that?  Or were you too far gone from the moment you took up Justice?”

Anders looked up at her, unable to say a thing.  He looked as if he did not know what to say, because she had said it all, and he stared down at his hands in sorrow, and silently wept.  Caitwyn was shocked at the utter despair in him, and she had tentatively reached out, to comfort a man she remembered as a friend. But then she closed her hand in to a fist, pulling away.  Because he was not the man she remembered, not anymore, and whatever hell he was currently living in was one of his own making. Nor did she have the time to pull him out of it. More, she did not know if she should.

 

* * *

It took them several weeks to reach the Anderfels, and then to the area where Weisshaupt stood.  They took back roads and goat paths, staying out of sight of all kinds of activity: human, elf, or dwarf.  Their party was light and swift, and could move well, but it still took time. When at last they reached the mountain pass where the fortress stood, Caitwyn could see why it had never fallen.  Built into the mountain itself, Weisshaupt rose higher than the peaks around it. It would not fall by a frontal assault, and likely many of the secret ways in and out were guarded as well. But Caitwyn had survived the mean streets of Denerim, and knew that often the high and mighty did not consider certain things possible.  So she would simply have to find an angle of attack that the Grey Wardens of old had not counted on.

“Oh yes,” she said to herself mockingly, seeing the despairing looks on her companions’ faces.  “This is going to be easy.”

“As always, your enthusiasm is infectious,” Zevran drawled, standing next to her.  Anders stood behind them a little ways, now better clothed. With a fur-lined cloak, padded breeches and thick soled boots, he could survive a trip through the mountains.   “So, what are you planning, a frontal assault? It would certainly buy us a few moments while they pissed themselves laughing at us.”

“It had crossed my mind, but I think we’ll save that for a last ditch attempt.  No, I had another angle of approach in mind. Something a little more… vertical.”  She pointed to one of the spires jutting into the sky, and even from this vantage she could tell it was long abandoned.  She would use their own fortress against them.

“And how are we even getting up there?” Anders asked, drawing even with them, and she did not brush off his question.  They had reached an unspoken truce in their time travelling together, and she did not want to have to fight him as well as the Wardens inside at the same time.

“We’ll do a night run, get to the base of the fortress near the tower.  How good a climber are you?” she asked, turning her head to ask Anders. He smirked at that, something like his old playfulness returning to his eyes.

“You ask that of me?  The escaping mage? My problem was never  _ getting _ out, it was staying out.  On that point, we are likely going to have to out run some very angry Wardens who know the area better than we do.  I do hope you have a plan other than ‘leg it and pray’.” Zevran raised his eyebrows in silent agreement with Anders’s point.

“No, no I have a plan, though neither of you will like it,” she said, hedging.

“It’s the Deep Roads, isn’t it?” Anders asked, a panicked edge to his voice.  He had hated being underground, confined. “You forget, the Wardens here will likely have better maps than we will.”

“I didn’t forget that, and it’s not the Deep Roads, not exactly,” she said. 

“Please, do not keep us in suspense,” Zevran urged. 

“If they agreed to my offer, the Kal-Sharok dwarves will meet us at a secret entrance not too far from here,” she said.  “Even the Wardens would hesitate to come for us through Kal-Sharok.”

“Hm, let us not focus on the  _ if _ , my dear, and we shall trust that whatever information you have, the dwarves want it badly enough.  I suggest we get some rest, if we are to make a night assault,” Zevran said, and Anders swallowed heavily.  

She wasn’t sure if what she was doing was the right thing anymore.  Her offer to Kal-Sharok wasn’t dire, or all that dangerous, but the knowledge she held could be used for ill ends.  Zevran wasn’t one to judge, not on that score, and Anders didn’t have a leg to stand on. But she’d have to face Alistair in the end, and she hoped that the price of his life was one  _ he _ could live with. 

Again.

“Kal-Sharok?!  How did you even contact them?  Who do you know who could… Varric,” Anders supplied the answer to his own question.  With a quirk of his brow, he huffed, more answers falling into place in his mind as she watched him.  “And that explains how you knew where to look for me, too.” 

“Lot of desert to track you in,” Caitwyn admitted, waving her hand dismissively to try to move on.

“Point.  But I agree with Zevran, we should get some rest.  Though I do wonder. What was your offer to the dwarves?” Anders asked, but Caitwyn shook her head.  She didn’t want to talk about it right now.

“Later, when we get there.  Right now we need to focus,” she said, feeling herself step back into old habits, closing off her feelings until after the fight was done.  Unlike some missions where she could find a freedom in a fight, a wild kind of exhilaration, where she could lay traps and confound her enemy, now she was reminded of the battle of Denerim, where the lives of those she loved had hung in delicate balance.  Duty and her heart had fought, and her heart had won. Perhaps it was a failing, but it was not one she could bring herself to correct.

 

* * *

The climb made her fingers ache, but she pressed on, straining to reach the next jutting stone or pit in the mortar.  Her bow was unstrung on her back, her quiver capped, and she led the way, picking out a route as best she could in the starry darkness.  Anders was below her, though not directly. They staggered formation, so if one fell, they wouldn’t take out the others behind them. Zevran brought up the rear, and they were as silent as could be in the shadow of the tower.

Up this high, wind howled in her ears.  She had always loved scaling impossible things, running along rooftops and getting in to secured places.  This, however, was a new extreme. Then she gained the ledge at the top and hauled herself over it, sprawling for a moment on the stone, getting her breath back as the cold wind chilled her.  But they had no time to rest. Hauling the rope out of her pack, she tied it securely around a post and let the rest of it slither down the side of the tower. Anders and Zevran both used it to make their final ascent, and then they gathered it back up, though did not untie it.  They might need it to get of here quickly, later, if all went well.

Without saying a word, they made their way down the stairs of the tower, Anders already proving his worth as an escapee by making barely a sound.  She and Zevran were completely silent, cloaking themselves in shadow and darkness, moving through the cold, half-empty fortress like ghosts. That it was half empty was surprising yet not.  The Warden’s recruitment numbers always fell after a Blight, and the Fifth Blight had not been long enough to drive up recruitment. But after the events at Adamant, even with the Inquisition keeping them around, it had not gone well for the Wardens. 

The old orders were dying, decaying, and she wondered if that spoke to some rot at the heart of the world—not just the Blight, but something else that the Blight was only a part of.  But that was a bit too abstract for her to deal with the moment. Instead, they had to figure out where Alistair was, get to him, and get him out before dawn came.

Either way, she knew the feeling of a full house, a place where people were around every corner, and Weisshaupt had a gaping sense of wrongness to it.  Patrols were confined to populated areas and servants were almost non-existent, which meant servants’ passages might just be ideal for their purposes. Skirting close to where the kitchens would be, she scouted ahead and found a back staircase, dusty and thick with cobwebs. 

There was nothing for it, in spite of her hatred of cobwebs.  With a gesture, she signaled Zevran and Anders to follow her, and on light feet they made it to the servants’ passages.  Able to move a little more freely, with a little less caution, they sped up, and she decided to take a risk. The First Warden’s office was to the back of the fortress, just off the main gathering hall, but it was late and though the Wardens had patrols as a matter of course, they had no reason to expect her here.

Counting in her head, she paced her way to the First Warden’s office, and smiled to see that the servant’s door was where she expected it to be.  Kneeling, she waved her hand near the bottom seam of the door, and grinned wider at feeling a draft. Not blocked then. Staying in a crouch, she checked the latch and hinges.  She held out her hand, and Zevran passed her a small glass bottle and a drop-stick to apply a touch of oil to the hinges. That done, she passed the bottle back and pressed her ear to the door.

Silence.

_ Maker please, _ she prayed, and with a breath she carefully opened the door, controlling its swing so it wouldn’t bang on anything.

The office was empty.

Letting out a shuddering, relieved breath, she made for the desk and started to rifle through the papers.  Zevran took up a position at the outer door, his head cocked and ears alert for any sign that someone was coming.  Anders kept to the servant’s stair. Quiet he might be, but if they needed to run, he would only get in the way if he was already in the office.

Unwilling to light any candles, she tilted the papers into the light of the moon and stars that streamed in through the window.  It was enough for her eyes to just barely make out various mundane orders. Food, supplies, worries about Warden reputation, but then she caught it.  An investigation, an interrogation because of a query the other Wardens had long had about the end of the Fifth Blight, how she and Alistair had both survived.

She had been right.  Everyone wanted a way out of a Warden’s fate.

And they were willing to torture Alistair to get it.

Her stomach clenched seeing that, in black and white, a log of what they had done and were prepared to do to get him to talk, to give up the dark secret they had carried for a decade.  A secret that was not nearly so dark as she had once thought. Kieran had only been eight when she had finally seen him, when Morrigan had unexpectedly asked her to look after him for a time.  Just a few months while she went to some place called Serault, and Caitwyn had come to care for him a great deal. Alistair had been away at the time, leading another Deep Roads expedition, and come back too late to see his son.

She had told him, but they did not speak of it further.

Shaking her head, she put that out of her mind and focused on the reports.  Her fingers clutched at the papers tightly, almost aching, but she tamped down her feelings, placing walls around everything that threatened to distract her from the task ahead of her.  If she let go of her control now, she did not know if she would ever get it, or him, back. Training her eyes on the words, she saw they were keeping him in the dungeon. Looking around, she tried to find something that would help her navigate the lower portions of the fortress.  The upper levels were fairly easy to figure out, but dungeons were often twisted, strange things.

Her eyes lighted on a proudly displayed and framed map of Weisshaupt.  Using the memory games her mother had taught her, she memorized as best she could.  Satisfied she had done all she could, she did her best to put the papers back in their original positions and was making a few final adjustments when Zevran shook her shoulder.  She looked up and followed his gaze to the office’s main door. Someone was coming.

In a flash, they ran back for the servant’s door, and just as Zevran was closing it behind them, the door to the office opened.  Rather than slam it, Zevran held it just barely closed and prevented the latch from catching. Now, they were stuck until whoever it was left, because if they closed the door, surely they would give away that someone was where no one was expected to be.

“It’s just here,” she heard a deep, masculine voice say in an Anderfels accent.  “Our supplies are being harried by bandits. I want you to go out and clear them off, Rainier.  That’s an actual threat, so focus on that. Not on whatever you think Captain Mullen is doing. I trust the woman implicitly, and I assure you, she is working on something very important for the Wardens as a whole.”

“… Yes, sir,” a gruff male voice said.

“Good, now get ready for your patrol tomorrow.  It’ll be good to have a man of your experience leading the new recruits,” the first man said as they left, the other door closing behind them.  That had to have been the First Warden, and the name, Muller, was one that was on the reports about Alistair. So. The First Warden had set his own agent on Alistair, but the Wardens as a whole likely didn’t know what they were up to.

Zevran closed the servant’s door with a soft click, and then he looked at her, eyebrow raised.  She turned her head and Anders was giving her the same look. They had to know what they would see, down in the dungeons.  They had to be ready.

“They’re torturing him, trying to figure out… figure out how we both lived,” she said, and they both gave her a quizzical look. 

“What’s wrong with you both living?” Anders asked.  “It was unlikely, but what of it?”

“A Warden has to die to end the Blight, but we found a loophole, a way around it,” Caitwyn said, moving down the passageway, not wanting to waste time.  Zevran and Anders were close on her heels, keeping up easily.

“You never told me that,” Anders said, the hurt clear in his voice.  He probably thought it another betrayal, and maybe it was. There was no time for it now, however.

“You weren’t a position to ask questions, and it probably wouldn’t have mattered.  Multiple Blights in one lifetime? Unlikely,” she said as they came to a choice, up or down.  She led them down.

“Morrigan, she did something,” Zevran supplied, already connecting the dots, the little hints and clues that no one could avoid leaving over the years.  Caitwyn grimaced.

“Yes, but it’s not important right now.  What is important is that they’re killing him by inches for information that doesn’t matter.  What Morrigan did won’t cure the Taint or stop Blights entirely.” Another choice, left or right.  Left, her memory supplied. Servants had to get to the dungeons, too.

“It might matter again, some day,” Anders pointed out, and she rounded on him in the darkness, glaring up at him, nearly quivering with rage and fear that threatened to break through the barriers she placed around her heart.  Seeing those reports on the First Warden’s desk, she had  _ not _ reacted.  Could not react except with dispassion, with logic, with clarity.  It was his only chance of survival, her only chance to save him. She could not pay attention to the way her heart threatened to flutter with panic, or how bile choked her throat.  For Alistair’s sake, she had to close off everything in her that could feel. An old habit, and it came back to her easily. Too easily.

“And if they need it, they will have it, but right now, we need to get Alistair out of here.  So focus. Ask me all the questions you want later, but do not go down that path here, Anders,” she said keeping her voice quiet and even, though there was an edge to it she could not entirely dull.

Anders, a man who still hosted a powerful spirit, nodded quickly.  Not waiting to see what Zevran’s opinion on the whole matter was, she turned back around and led them to the dungeons.  
  



	2. Bitter Remnants of Things Past

Swinging open the door to the dungeons, Caitwyn slunk around the corner and saw one Warden at their post down the hallway, a torch to either side of him.  Alert to his surroundings from the way he kept his shoulders back and his eyes on the shadows. She would be so lucky as to get the one dutiful guard in all of Thedas.  If they did anything too obvious or fast, he could raise an alarm in time, it was luck that he was facing the staircase and not in their direction.

Luckily, she had a Crow.  Zevran seemed to ooze through the shadows, keeping to the guard’s blind spots, he crept in from the side and got behind the guard on silent feet.  Then in a blur of movement, he held a cloth over the man’s mouth, and the guard slumped to his seat. Shaking out the cloth, Zevran primly folded it and stowed it in a pocket.

Caitwyn and Anders were already on the move, Zevran sneaking ahead of her, keys in one hand, torch in another.  There was only one locked cell, which would have surprised her anywhere else. The Wardens fought darkspawn; they didn’t take prisoners.  Zevran reached the door ahead of her, but hesitated, and then handed the keys to her. They felt cold and heavy in her palm, but rather than contemplate or try to brace for what she was about to see, she jammed the key in the lock, twisted it and flung the door open.

The huddled figure held his hands up to shield his hands from the light.  He was chained, heavy manacles encircling his raw wrists. He was dressed in rags and tatters, with only a bit of straw scattered about the floor over the grey, damp stone. 

“Come again have we?”  It was still Alistair’s voice, the timber of it as familiar as her own voice, but the cadance and tones were all wrong, too fast, hurried.  To hear him like that, to see him like this, it clawed at her throat, it threatened to make tears overspill her eyes. But there was no time for that.  “What shall it be this time? The wheel, the rack? Or maybe the pliers? Those were good fun, we all had a good scream. Oh wait, no that was just me. Maybe some hot pokers, we haven’t tried those yet.”  

She wished she could unhear that, to block out that knowledge, but she knew he was using the words to shield what was left of himself.  It still threatened to take the heart out of her to see him so ravaged.

“Maker’s breath,” Anders breathed behind her, holding his hand to his mouth in horror.  Zevran cursed too, something in Antivan, and probably appropriately vile. But she didn’t waste her time on curses.

“Alistair, it’s me, it’s Cait, I’m here to get you out,” she said softly, kneeling down, letting the light show her face rather than keep it in shadow.  She reached for him, but he backed away, hazel eyes narrowed and suspicious. Words tried to form on her lips, to reassure him, to bring him back to her, but nothing came.  The flinch, the  _ instinctive _ flinch cracked her heart like brittle glass, and bile rose in her throat.

“No, you can’t be real.  I’m making it up, making it up like I made it up before,” he insisted.

“We do not have time for this,” Zevran said, though not ungently.  She glanced back to him and waved him away. He sighed, but went to the guard post at the end of the hallway.

“Alistair, please, it really is me,” she said, keeping her hands back.  She recalled how careful he had been with her, when she had been working through her own trauma, and she wished she had that time now.  This was not going to be easy. Not by a long shot.

“You’re  _ dead _ .  No,  _ she’s _ dead.  They said so,” he prattled, voice rising in pitch and speeding up.  “Said you’d died out west, got a report, showed it to me. Said there was nothing for me to protect, but I didn’t believe them, had to protect…  _ him _ .  Didn’t know how much he could matter until I saw, oh Maker, you’re dead, Cait, please don’t do this… please don’t pretend you’re alive.”  Tears ran down his dirty cheeks, over the cuts and bruises on his face. They had broken his nose, and she saw his hands were bloody, where they had torn his nails out.  What the rags hid, she would find out soon enough, but she had seen enough to make her eyes water as much as she tried to stay in control. It seeped out at the edges, the horror of what had been done to him, and she couldn’t stop it.

“His mind is fractured,” Anders said matter-of-factly, and Caitwyn was grateful for his measured response.  A rarity from from the mage. He knelt beside her and eyed Alistair with a clinical air. Alistair backed away from him as well, his wide, confused eyes flicking between them.  “Hopefully not beyond repair, but I can perhaps help him, clear the fog, though only for a little while. This is not a permanent solution, and it might make his road harder, but it will make sure he won’t fight us when we move.”

“Do it,” she said, not taking her eyes off the man she loved, the man she would defy the world for.  “Alistair, I’m sorry.”

Anders cast his spell, his eyes glowing a brilliant blue, and it was unlike anything she had seen before.  The blue light suffused Alistair as well, making his own eyes flare. In moments, some of the crusted lacerations began to knit back together, and the fresher, plum-colored bruises faded from blue to green then vanished, leaving grimy yet whole skin behind.  Yet the older wounds, left open and exposed to infection, did not close at all. The biggest change though, came in his demeanor. One moment a man half mad, muttering to himself, twitching in fear, and seeing past them, the next he looked at her and he  _ saw _ her.

“Maker help me, Cait, is it really you?” he asked, his voice breaking in disbelief.  She nodded, tears she could not keep back spilling down her cheeks as he tentatively reached to touch an errant lock of her hair.  “You grew your hair out, like when we first met.”

“Yes, on both counts, and we need to go,” she said, gently reaching for his manacles and unlocking them.  They fell away, and Anders got under one of Alistair’s arms and levered him to his feet. Alistair blinked at the mage, then frowned.

“I know you,” he said slowly, as if catching half a memory, but she touched his face, pulling his attention back to her.

“Later, Alistair, later.  We need to go now,” she said, and he nodded, expression settling in to a grim determination.  Then she saw Zevran jogging back to them.

“Ah, good, he is up and about.  We must make haste, my friends, it seems we have been noticed,” Zevran said, drawing his knives.  Alistair gave a jolt at seeing the sharp blades, that Zevran held them didn’t seem to matter, and part of her wanted to tear her way out of this damned place for it.  But they’d never survive, not with Alistair barely functional as it was.

“Help Anders with him,” she said, and Zevran hesitated only a fraction of a second before putting his knives away.  She searched her recent memory, the map in First Warden’s office she had tried to memorize, hoping she had seen something that first time.  Something useful. She knelt again, letting her hand float half an inch above the floor. Another draft, coming from the very back of the hallway.  A way out, a passage forgotten by most.

“That way,” she said, standing and pointing.  Anders and Zevran went first, making good time she hoped.  Alistair could move, Anders having healed some of his more recent injuries, but he had been here a long time.  The damage was extensive. Quickly, she strung her bow, and she took the cap off her quiver.

“No,” she heard Alistair protest.  “No, don’t make me leave her, not again.”

“She will be fine, my friend,” Zevran said, though she heard the false assurance in his voice.  She heard the clatter on the stairs coming closer, men and women in armor, voices raised in anger at someone violating  _ their _ fortress.

She stood her ground, arrow at the ready.

A group of Wardens burst through the heavy, iron braced wood door, taking in the sight of their fellow Warden unconscious and an elven woman covering the escape of their one and only prisoner, a man who could barely walk.  Their leader was an older man, silver shot through his black hair at the temples and his large, bushy beard.

“Hold, men,” he said, holding up a mailed fist, letting the point of his sword dip low, and she recognized the voice.  Rainier, the man from the Commander’s office. “Who are you?”

“Someone who is taking this man out of here, away from the torture Captain Muller has been inflicting on him,” she said, still sighting along her arrow.  Though she knew this man had nothing to do with it, she knew people. This was a man who cared for honor, for right, it was there in his eyes plain as day.  So she needled him as if he were not a good man, pushing him where she needed him to go. Away from here would be good enough for her.

“I saw the documents, on the First Warden’s desk,” she went on stridently, pitching her voice with just the right amount of righteous rage.  It wasn’t hard to achieve. “Ask him, ask him what they would torture one of their own for, and ask yourself if it’s really worth it.”

“You haven’t answered my question,” Rainer said, but he didn’t move, nor did he signal his men to do so.

“Think you have bigger ones right now.  Like why so much has been kept from you, from all of you,” she said, and that caused a little bit of helpful muttering in the ranks.  “Clean them up, and you’ll see me again, and you’ll get your answers. I swear it.”

“You’re asking a lot, girl, that I should trust you so much,” he countered, and she gave him a tight grin.  Adjusting her aim ever so slightly, she fired an arrow with pinpoint accuracy in to the stone just beyond the very tip of his boot.  He didn’t even flinch.

“Ironbark and crow feathers, if you’ve a care to check.  Oh, and what other elven archer would come to rescue Warden Alistair of Ferelden?” she asked, and she saw all their eyes go wide in shock.  While the exact nature of their relationship had been kept as secret as they could, it was known that they were close. A few tales spun them as lovers, but they had laughed it off publicly, a few chuckles doing more than vehement denial ever could.

It had allowed them to stay together, for a time at least.  And those who did know had never divulged their secret.

Rainier sheathed his sword, glanced at the men and women with him, and they followed suit.  He turned back to her, nodded once, and led his group out of the dungeons. Two men picked up the unconscious guard, and they closed the door behind them.  She let out an explosive breath, and she turned to see Alistair at the far end of the hallway, out of sight of their fellow Wardens, but having dug his heels in and refusing to leave without her.  Injured and half starved, he was still a strong man, and Zevran and Anders needed his cooperation to move him, though they still half bore him up.

“Very well done, my dear, but I do not think that will see us safely away entirely,” Zevran said.

“I agree.  We need to get to the rendezvous point quickly, before other Wardens investigate.  And we have no way of knowing if this Rainier fellow will be able to hold back the tide, as it were,” Anders pointed out.

“You sure you don’t want to lead a one woman revolution?  Again? You’re a madwoman, you know that?” Alistair asked weakly, and she couldn’t help it.  She laughed. It was a wild, jagged thing, born of week after week of gut-sick fear and mind-numbing rage, but here, even in a place such as this, his mind only clear thanks to a bit of magic, Alistair  _ still _ joked.

“You’re the one cracking jokes, and I’m mad?” she asked, trotting ahead quickly, running her hands over the stone to find the latch on the door she knew had to be there.  He shot her a half-grin, and her heart leapt to see it.

“You are both equally mad, and thus well suited, very lovely,” Zevran grumbled, shifting Alistair’s weight better.  “Regardless, faster, if you would.”

Not bothering to respond, she followed a promising line in the stone, a suggestion of a doorway, and felt something give under her fingertips and heard a corresponding tick.  The stone swung outward, revealing a passageway, but rather than a musty, disused odor, it smelled like fresh air. With more hope than she had felt in a long time, she let the men go first and then closed the door behind her as they made their bid for freedom.

If the dwarves of Kal-Sharok had accepted her offer, that is.

 

* * *

They had run out from under the imposing towers of Weisshaupt in the middle of the night, making for the nearby hills.  There was little useful cover in this area, but if her maps were correct, there was an old entrance to the Deep Roads nearby.  It was the place she had asked the dwarves of Kal-Sharok to meet her.  _ If  _ they had agreed to her terms, if they wanted the information she had. 

With only the light of the moon and stars to guide her, she peered into the darkness as they wound through the hills.  Thus far, there was no pursuit from the fortress. Rainier must be following through, taking someone to task, or simply putting himself in harm’s way.  It wasn’t her concern anymore, what Wardens did to each other. Her only priority was reaching the relative safety of the Deep Roads. Her sharp eyes picked up a trail, and she trotted ahead, hand running over the dirt and grass, something about it different than simple countryside.  It had the marks of a game trail, though no game trail was so straight. 

Following the trail, they reached what looked like a dead end.  A small cliff in the middle of the bluff, a place where it looked like a hillside had given way to a mudslide.  But this had to be it. The trail ended here. She glanced back, Zevran and Anders still helping Alistair along.  He shivered in the cold, his thin, prisoner’s shift barely enough to protect him in a dungeon, let alone a chill night in the open.  But he had not complained, had not balked. The only sound during their flight had been their own breathing and her heart’s blood racing in her ears. 

An owl hooted in the distance, and she froze, watching the silent form glide overhead, her green eyes glinting in the darkness like a cat’s.  Then she heard something like the shift of earth, the dull thud of rock moving, and she turned to see crack in the line of the rock face. The door opened, and just inside were the dwarves of Kal-Sharok, armored and helmed, pointing crossbows at them.

“Veeta,” the one standing next to the leader barked, who did not have a crossbow raised.  Instead, their leader had a very large great axe in hand, and Caitwyn kept her movements to a minimum.  She well knew what damage one of those could do, and did not wish to accidentally provoke anything.

“Atrast vala,” she said, deepening her voice and mimicking the cadence of the dwarves she had known, putting the accents as right as she could.  “I come to make a trade.” The greeting was met with a grumble, however, and she wanted to grimace. Orzammar accent. She spoke dwarven with an Orzammar accent.  They would not like that. One, however, stepped forward. The figure was so heavily armored, Caitwyn couldn’t tell if it was male or female. Though it hardly mattered.

“Atrast vala, Warden,” the dwarf said, voice smoother, higher, though it rang in the helm.  A woman. Caitwyn let out a slow breath, but did not break her composure. “Do you have the trade goods on you?”

“I do,” Caitwyn confirmed, tapping the breast pocket of her jerkin.  Maps. Information. The promise of holding their own against a world that had thought them a myth.  Granted, _ that _ pocket wasn’t where she kept the maps.  It wouldn’t do to give away where she kept them on her, but the gesture sufficed.

“Then come.  The pact is made, and honored,” the dwarf told them, and stepped back, allowing them inside.  Caitwyn gestured, waving the men on ahead of her. They glanced at her with obvious curiosity, and she would answer their questions.  Later. Cait followed, and once she was past the threshold, the door to the Deep Roads began to close. From the outside, it would be as though they had disappeared into the night, never to be found again. 

That suited her purposes right down to the ground.

“Valos Atredum,” Caitwyn said by way of thanks.  The dwarf grunted and removed her helm as the doors boomed shut.  For a moment they were plunged into complete darkness, but swiftly the other dwarves lit those smokeless torches, lending a clean, orange cast to everything.  The face under that helm was round, with a soft jaw line and a button nose, but the grey eyes were as hard as the Stone the dwarves honored. 

“So you say, Warden.  Though Warden no longer, I think.  It matters not to me. The Assembly said to help you, so fetch you I have.  Though I expect you to keep up, surfacer. I am Commander Salka, and you speak to me first, understand?” Salka ordered, and Caitwyn dipped her head respectfully.  She was not afraid of this woman, not precisely. But with Alistair hurt, she was relying on the good will of strangers to make it through this stage of her escape plan.  She cared little for it, but this was the safest route.

“We all understand, Commander Salka,” Caitwyn replied, keeping to the formality these dwarves seemed to hold to.  Then she saw Anders gesturing at Alistair, at his bare feet, one of them bleeding, and she had to press her luck, just a little further.  “I do have one thing to beg of you. Some better wear, for the injured member of our party. It need not be fine, but sturdy would do.”

Salka took in Alistair’s sorry state, and he met her gaze without trouble.  It was the magic Anders had used that kept him upright, that kept him from devolving back to his maddened state.  It was enough to pass muster, and the woman nodded. She barked a few sharp words in dwarven, words Caitwyn could just barely understand, and clothes were brought forward by another dwarf.

“Now, we must move quickly.  The Assembly wants your information, and they are not patient,” Salka said.  As soon as Alistair was dressed, Caitwyn helping him shuck out of his prisoner’s toga  and into the breeches and shirt that were a touch too short for him, the party moved out.  The clothes were in an old style, but he now at least he had better protection than the tattered rags he had been afforded.  

Caitwyn kept pace with him, slinging his arm around her shoulders as they walked.  She traced the knuckles of hand gently, and his fingers curled around hers. She tried not to lean into his touch, as much as she desperately wanted to, to touch him and  _  know _ that he was with her again.  Instead, she pushed that all down and focused on what lie ahead of them.  He could largely support himself, though he limped, but she would not have another carry him further if she could be the one helping him.  But words escaped her, and he bent all his concentration on moving, hisses of pain escaping him with every step.

“Anders will heal you when we stop for rest,” she promised, but he merely nodded, eyes fixed forward.  She had saved him from torture and death at the hands of those who should have been their brothers and sisters in Grey, but she wondered if she had truly been in time to save the heart of him.

Only time would tell.

 

* * *

After two days in the Deep Roads, they were not even a quarter of the way to Kal-Sharok when the magic Anders had worked on Alistair gave out.  His mind clouded again, and he fell to his knees, clutching at his head as panic held him in its tight-fisted grip. She was thankful that they had decided against arming him.  An armed, maddened Alistair was not something she wanted to deal with.

When the magic failed, his breathing had sped up when he saw her, and he insisted she was dead.  It paralyzed her to see him so lost in his own mind but unable to take the time to help him as she should.  She wanted to reach out to him, to make him see she was real, but she didn’t want to set him off either, to send him running in to the Deep Roads to be lost to her forever.  But they had to keep up the pace, so they had pressed on the rest of that day, Anders keeping close to him, while she served as a scout with Zevran. Though the dwarves maintained this stretch of road, it was prudent to scout for darkspwan every so-called morning, just to be sure.

“He will recover,” Zevran said as they crested a rise in the road, seeing the way clear.

“I appreciate the sentiment, but you don’t know that,” she said, heart heavy.  It tore at her to see him this way, to see him like this and not be able to help.  She had been able to maintain her hope when his mind had been clear, but after the magic had worn off, her fragile hope had been chipped away.

“Ah, but I do,” Zevran replied, giving her a brief grin before looking out over the underground vista before them.  It was a majestic span of stone over a deep channel of lava, and the other side looked to be an open expanse of stone, almost like a courtyard, littered with ruins of buildings and statues from a time long past.  “You are his true north, Caitwyn. You always have been. He will find his way home to you, because you call him on, by his side or not.”

A lump formed in her throat, and she blinked back tears.  Once, she had never shown such emotion, had kept everything so controlled, but her friends, her dearest friends, had long since earned the right to see past her defenses.  As she knew she was seeing past Zevran’s now.

“Thank you, Zevran, I… thank you,” she said, looking him in the eye, letting him see that she understood.  He shook his head.

“No, do not thank me.  It is a simple truth, as is the fact that he is your touchstone.  I saw that, long ago,” he said, and then he grinned, a self-deprecating sort of thing.  “And it has afforded me much amusement to see how I can make you both blush. It is more difficult now, I grant you, but I believe I can still manage it.”

She rolled her eyes, but she smiled all the same.  Zevran never could be kept down for long. Unless he wanted to be, of course.

“Let’s get back and let them know the way is clear,” she said, and headed back to camp.  

When they returned, she helped pack up, and she felt someone watching her.  Looking around, she saw Alistair staring at her, frowning. His eyes were still confused, like he was lost, but something almost familiar looked out at her now.

“They said you were dead,” he said flatly, trying to keep still, but he fidgeted with his hands.  The nails had been grown back by magic, but he still had scars on his fingers. He always would now, those lovely long fingers and strong hands forever altered.

“I know, but they lied.  They lied to make you lose hope.  I know I was gone a long time, and I’m sorry.  I’m sorry you were there at all, but I am real,” she said softly, folding over a thin blanket she had been about to pack away, holding it to her belly.  The dwarves gave them both a wide berth, and Zevran packed up his things at the far side of the camp. Anders stood just to the side, just out of hearing, but ready to step in in case Alistair backslid.

“Only have your word for it,” he said haltingly, “and you might be my imagination, telling me what I want to hear.”

There was nothing to say to that, nothing she  _ could _ say that would get through.  So she set down the bed roll and held out her right hand—a slim hand, calloused and roughed by years of drawing back her bow, climbing over rocks, fighting, cleaning, preparing camp.  All the hallmarks of a life lived hard, with more battles and fights and scrapes than most people could imagine. She let her hope and concern and love for him show on her face, let it reach her eyes, let him  _ see _ that no hallucination could look at him like this, no hallucination would feel as she did.

He looked down at her hand, as though afraid, and a tremor ran through his body, hard enough to make Anders take half a step forward in concern.

“If you’re real,” he said slowly, carefully, as though trying to piece together the very idea of it.  “If you’re real then… then what they did to me was real, too. All that was real.”

“I know,” she whispered, her eyes only for him, everything else falling away.  Anders, Zevran, the dwarves of Kal-Sharok, even the Deep Roads. There was only Alistair standing before her, hurt, nearly shattered, and she knew all too well what that was like.  What accepting pain like that meant. “I know, Alistair, but I’m asking you to come back to me. It won’t be easy, but you will not be alone. I promise.”

Tortured, half-starved, beaten, he was still the brave, beautifully hearted man she had known since she was eighteen. He took her hand in his own, fingers closing around hers tightly,.  His breathing was ragged, unsteady, but he did not flee, and she carefully closed the distance until she she stood close enough to see the freckles on his cheeks. Raising her hand to his face, he flinched, but held still, allowing her fingers to trace the lines of the scars across his brow, down his check and along his jaw.  Hazel eyes wide, he watched her as though searching for something. Then slowly, haltingly, he touched her face, tracing the same lines she had.

With a strangled sob, he pitched forward, burying his face in her neck, holding her close.  She had to kneel under the weight of him, lowering them to the smooth stone of the road beneath their feet, as his arms held her like iron bands.  Wrapping her arms around him, one hand threading through his gritty hair, she rocked him back and forth, whispering nonsense in his ear, softly singing half-remembered snatches of songs from her childhood. 

Out the corner of her eye, she saw one of the dwarves approaching, only to be intercepted by Zevran and Anders, and she heard a gruff grunt and the leader giving them a time limit. They looked back at her to see if she had heard, and she nodded.  The two began to pack up all their things, hers included, and she felt a surge of gratitude for them both, for Zevran who had been her friend for over a decade, and Anders. Anders who had helped her when she needed him most. Even after everything he had done, he still wanted to help.

The storm passed, and Alistair hunched over, almost listless as all that mad energy had been bled out of him, leaving little else left behind.  Slowly, she pulled back, green eyes searching his face.

“Alistair?  We have to keep going.  I’m sorry, we can’t rest just yet, we have to keep moving,” she said gently.  He looked at her then, really looked at her, and she thought he actually  _ saw _ her Not just because magic had unfogged his mind, but because he was starting to find his own way back to her.

“Yes, yes I know.  It’s dangerous to be in one place too long in the Deep Roads,” he agreed, his voice still a little abstracted, as though he were remembering the words, not really saying them.  But he was no longer trying to avoid her, insisting she was dead or a ghost or something his fevered brain had conjured up. 

It was a start, and if she had anything to do about it, it would not be the end.

 

* * *

Kal-Sharok afforded them the first opportunity to rest properly, and they took it.  She had coin enough to get them rooms above the tavern, as she did not wish to trade too much on the information she had or bet on any residual generosity of the dwarves here.  Though this place seemed less stratified than Orzammar, it was more standoffish to outsiders, and she knew they were here at the sufferance of others. She could not risk going back above ground until they were further south.

The rest also seemed to be doing Alistair some good.

“Hey,” she said softly, entering the main lounge of the suite of rooms she had rented.  She made an effort to make noise as she moved, making sure he was not taken by surprise.  He still jumped when something unexpected happened, and knives made him a little nervous. She had kept her own daggers out of his sight, and was thankful he didn’t mind her bow at all.

Alistair looked up from where he sat, eyes clear, and body largely recovered.  The scars would always be there, and though his nose had been reset, it was crooked at the bridge now.  It was the scars in his mind that still troubled him. When everyone was up and about, he managed to function almost normally, to the point where he had been looking at armor and weapons in the market with Zevran yesterday.

It was in the quiet, in the night, when the memories surfaced and plagued him.  He would wake with a strangled cry, turning in on himself, trying to shield his body from torments that were no longer there.  Caitwyn would sing softly, never a very good voice, but she put all her love of him into it, and he slowly uncurled and clung to her.  The story came from him slowly, in halting words in the dark, how the First Warden welcomed him, how the questions started as friendly and become more pointed, until Alistair had a clear sense that they were not going to let him go until they had what they wanted.  He tried to leave, but Captain Muller had been waiting for him on the road.

That had been the start.

She told him her story in turn, her search in the west, slinking past unfamiliar peoples through strange lands, finding their possible salvation on the other side of an Eluvian, and how she had learned her love was not where he should be.  How she did not stop, did not falter, and had come for him, how she would not let him go. Slowly, Alistair began to believe that, until his tortured picture of the world was washed away by Caitwyn’s ocean-deep love, her careful tenderness when he fought to find reality with a broken though healing mind, and her refusal to let him remain lost.

He had found his way back to her, and she would never let him go, not ever again.

“Hi there,” he replied, standing, still favoring his left side.  The damage was healed, Anders had insisted, but Alistair still walked gingerly on his right leg where they had flayed the skin from the bottom of his foot.  Apparently, they had been about to do the other one just before she had arrived. His smile was almost the same as well, that lopsided grin that had made her heart flutter years ago and every day since, but his eyes weren’t the same.  Not quite. 

Standing on tip-toe, she hugged him tightly, and he lifted her off her feet like he always did when they were alone. 

“You met with the Assembly today?” he asked, setting her back down.  She nodded, tucking her hair behind her ears, not liking what she had done, but payment had been necessary to afford them safety.  He frowned, but did not comment further on her dubious choices. “So that’s it then.”

“My memory of the Deep Roads around Orzammar was the only bargaining chip I had that Kal-Sharok would be remotely interested in,” she said, trying not to sound defensive.  “If it helps, I think they mostly want to use it to help get more favorable rates on trade, if they can reasonably threaten to use better routes. Bhelen Aeducan may be a horrid, scheming, shit-stain of a person, but his stance on trade with Kal-Sharok instead of submission to Orzammar’s rule has made our lives a lot easier right now.”

“I’m still not sure if that makes it right, Cait, even if it did save me,” he said, and she sighed, running a hand through her long hair, walking around him to perch on the back of the low couch at the center of the room.  She looked away, out the window over the street, the ruddy light of the lava making it look like sunset beyond the window, when no such thing mattered down here. Then she screwed up her own courage and looked back at him. 

“It doesn’t,” she agreed, and left off the fact it wasn’t the first deal with the demon she’d made in her life.  At least not an actual, literal demon. But she had learned years ago that people were at times were worse than any demon.  It was in a demon’s nature to try to destroy your soul and eat your face. People had a choice not to, and still did it anyway.  “But I’d do it again. To get you out of there, to have you back.”

“You do too much to save me,” he said quietly, leaning on the couch next to where she sat.  Sliding her arms around him, she held him close, forehead resting against his temple.

“You’d do no less for me,” she told him, and he said nothing, which was something like agreement.  He turned in to her touch, a hand holding her forearm.

“I love you, Cait.  I love you so much, but what’s left to us now?” he asked, a question she had been asking herself.  She had burned their bridges with the Wardens well and truly. They could not easily settle in Denerim, Anora having made it very clear that Alistair was not to show his face in the city unless absolutely necessary.  Amaranthine was closed to them as well, her abandonment of the Wardens with her rescue of Alistair putting an end to that port of safety. The city itself held little appeal regardless. The Howe’s had been reinstated anyway, Nathaniel’s young nephew proving to be a good lad with a reasonable grasp of rulership.

There was one chance, one path their lives could take, one that had been cut off to them for years.  But it was open to them now, if they were willing to risk it.

“I found our answer,” she said simply.  He blinked in surprise, though he didn’t need to ask for clarification.  It was  _ the _ answer, the one they had been trying to find for years.  “But we’ll need more magical help than Anders can provide to do it.”

“Oh no,” he said, knowingly.

“We’ll have some time to talk about it, if you want, as we go south,” she said, kissing his cheek.  He sighed.

“Of course, of course we need to ask  _ her _ for help again,” he groused, though there was no longer any real feeling behind it.  Ten years’ time and distance made for a good way to put old things behind them, for both of them.  A half-smile played about her lips as she stroked his hair. She had missed this so much, being next to him, talking with him.  Zevran had been correct to see that he was her touchstone, that he always had been. Still, a question lingered in her mind, and it was one that she had to ask, if Morrigan was to help them.  Because where Morrigan went, Kieran was sure to follow.

“I know you don’t want to talk about the dungeons, and I’m not asking you to, but you said something, when we found you, about how even after you thought I was dead,” she said, and he tensed at the mention of it.  She held him tighter. “Shhh, no it’s not about that. You said you kept quiet to protect  _ him _ .  You meant Morrigan’s son, didn’t you?”

“Yes, I,” he began to say, and then stopped, gathering his thoughts.  Taking a breath, he steadied himself, and looked at her. “I met him, Kieran, when I was at Skyhold for a little while.  You were right, he was normal enough, and I knew that if I gave the Wardens what they wanted that he’d never be safe. I couldn’t… I couldn’t let them hurt him,” he said, and her heart went out to him.  He had only ever wanted a family, and the one child he had was one he couldn’t claim. “He seemed happy, a good lad. Studious. Well-adjusted. Loved.”

“He’s very loved, yes,” she assured him, thinking of how Kieran had talked about  _ Mother this  _ and  _ Mother that _ when she had looked after him for that short time at Amaranthine, when Morrigan had been on a mission for the Empress.  He had never wondered if he had been wanted, because although he had been created to save their lives, Morrigan clearly loved her son with a strength that would put most storms to shame.

“He’s lucky, then,” Alistair said, as though he had decided something.  What, Caitwyn could only guess at, but she thought she might have a fair idea.  Pressing her lips to his temple, she closed her eyes, trying to pour everything she felt for him into that kiss.

“I do love you, Alistair, so very much.”  She spoke softly, just next to his ear, and he let go of a tension that he had not been aware of holding in his shoulders.

“And I you.  So,” he drew out the word and stopped, the possibility of a real future dangling just out of reach, if they could but chance it.  He rested his forehead against her own, and he grinned. “South, then, and we’ll see if we can wrangle a witch.”    
  



	3. Old Things Behind Us

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> While we leave a lot of the action-y adventure behind here, there's more than one kind of adventure in life, yes? Like, how the hell do you live like a normal person?

Caitwyn breathed in the fresh air, closing her eyes a moment to relish the scent of green, growing things instead of the stale, metallic taste of the Deep Roads.  Then she glanced at Alistair to see how he fared. He still looked a bit too pale, making his freckles stand out all the more, but he turned his face to the sun as they left the Deep Roads behind. They were in Orlais, according to the dwarves, and it was some distance to go to get to Ferelden.  She was not certain where they could find a place that was safe for them, though she had a couple of ideas. At the moment, however, she enjoyed the feel of the wind on her face, the blue sky, and the sounds of animals that weren’t nugs.

“I believe I shall be leaving you, my friends,” Zevran said as they reached a crossroads.  They were to head south for Val Royeaux to board a ship and avoid the Frostbacks. Where they would make landfall had not yet been discussed.  While Zevran leaving was something she had been half expecting, she had not thought it would come so soon. She had hoped he would at least stay until they got to a major city.  She knew he was not fond of the wilderness.

“Are you sure?” she asked him.  “You know you don’t have to go.”  The offer was genuine, and he smiled to see it.  But he shook his head regardless.

“I am aware that I would be welcome, but, ah, there are things I left behind that I must attend to,” he said, and Caitwyn did not press the matter.  “You rather did interrupt me in the middle of something.”

“Oh, no, I do not need to know this,” Alistair commented, which made Zevran grin sharply.

“Are you sure?  It is a most tantalizing tale,” Zevran drawled.

“The only thing I interrupted was your sleep, Zevran,” Caitwyn pointed out, which made Alistair give a little triumphant “ha!”  Zevran gave them both a quelling look.

“You are ruining my plan to leave you without any qualms, the both of you.”  Zevran sighed and raised his eyes to the sky in mock despair. “My friends, you know I cannot stay with you, you both need time together, and I would not wish to intrude.  There, I have said it.”

“Thank you, Zevran,” Alistair said, moving around behind her to clap their friend on the shoulder, and Caitwyn’s heart eased to see him reach out to someone other than her.  It was still slow, the healing of his mind, but this was part of it, she knew.

“Ah, it was a good test of my skill.  Besides, we have come a long way together, have we not?” Zevran asked, returning the gesture in a comradely display of affection.

“That we have,” Alistair agreed, and after a final, hearty pat, their hands fell away from shoulders.  Zevran nodded to them both, and cast one eye at Anders, who lingered back a little ways. Since leaving the Deep Roads, and with Alistair’s health returning, the mage had kept himself apart, but not yet struck out on his own.

“There is one final thing I wish to say, before I go,” Zevran said, and he turned to Caitwyn, his eyes gleaming a rare serious light.  “You have shown much forgiveness before, my dear, to me, to others, given us chances for redemption and atonement we had not thought possible.  Good and bad, we all do such things in our lives, but a man is only damned after he is dead. While he lives, he may still change.”

“You think I should forgive Anders?  I don’t know if I even have the right to do so, Zevran.  How could I?” she asked, though Alistair stayed quiet on this point.  Zevran shrugged.

“Because sometimes, someone else must forgive a man first, before he can forgive himself,” he told her, and she knew what he was talking about.  The woman he had loved, years ago, the woman he had killed, and what it had cost him to admit to her what he had done. Caitwyn hugged him, squeezing him close for a moment, giving him time to get over his shock at the gesture and hug her back.

“Thank you, Zevran.  For everything. And we’ll send you a letter when we settle down.  You should come for a visit, if you can,” she offered as she withdrew.  He smiled, that bright, irrepressible smile.

“Of course, my dear,” he said brightly with an extravagant bow.  “And now, I am back to that little chateau and my oh so delightful work.  Ah, it will be a beautiful spring after all, I believe.”

They watched him travel east down the road.  He turned back once, waving his hand at them.   She looked up at Alistair, and as if he sensed her attention, he looked down at her.  Grabbing his hand, she set his arm across her shoulders and they turned their feet back south.

“Come on, Anders.  We need to make it to the next town before nightfall.  I’d rather not sleep under a hedgerow if we can avoid it,” she said loudly enough to make sure her voice carried back to the mage.

“I had thought I might return to the desert, where I couldn’t… where there’s no one to hurt, but if you wish me to stay with you for a time, I… I would do so,” Anders said as he trotted and caught up to them.  “I… your trust in me is much appreciated.”

“Well, you’re earning it again, slowly, but you are,” she told him, half a warning, half an acknowledgement of all he had done for Alistair.  “There is also something else we need to talk to you about.”

“Oh?” he asked warily.  She glanced up at Alistair, a silent question in her eyes.  He mulled it over for a moment, and then squeezed her shoulders, holding her close for a moment as they walked.

“Caitwyn found a cure for the Taint,” Alistair said.  “But it needs two mages working together to accomplish it.  One to handle the blood magic…”

“… And another to keep the subject alive,” Anders finished, sighing.  His voice took on an edge, and this is what she had dreaded, that the spirit in him would take this poorly.  “I knew you were keeping me around for something else.”

“Yes, because you’re the only healer alive in all of Thedas I trust to do it,” she said, keeping her tone matter-of-fact, tucking away her frustration.  Getting angry at Anders had never been a good track. It was probably that word again, _trust_ , that did the trick, though.  Anders stopped and looked at them both, as if seeing them for the first time.

“Oh.   _Oh_.  I. Yes, of course, I,” Anders stammered.  “I will. I will help you both.”

“You say that now.  Wait until you meet the mage you’ll be working with,” Alistair drawled, and Caitwyn resisted the urge to elbow him in the ribs for that remark.

“We have to get a message to her, first,” Caitwyn said, thinking of the sending crystal Morrigan had left her after she had come back from Serault.  It was currently in her lockbox in Vigil’s Keep, a place none of them could return to openly, though she could always break into her own keep.

Not that it was her keep any more, but she found it didn’t bother her in the slightest.  No, she didn’t need to go back to the keep itself. There was another way to get what they needed.

 

* * *

 

“Thank you, Nathaniel,” she said, taking the lockbox from him as they stood on the rickety dock.  The old smugglers caves below the City of Amaranthine weren’t in much use these days. Nathaniel was, not to put too fine a point on it, vigilant about keeping them away.  Alistair knelt next to her, inspecting the puppies in the basket that Nathaniel had also brought down for them.

“They’ve just been weaned, and their mother was happy to have that lot off of her, I can tell you.  Your old boy left a large last litter,” he said. Maethor had been “retired” for years, though breeders kept bringing females for him to breed with, eager to have a puppy from the dog that had helped defeat the Blight.  He had died while she had been away. As much as she had wanted to have him with her on the journey, she knew his old joints would have not been able to keep up. It had hurt to leave him behind, knowing he probably wouldn’t live to see her return, but having this last lot of puppies helped.

“They do look good,” Alistair agreed, hefting the basket, grinning.  The puppies yipped excitedly at him, and he raised a inquiring eyebrow at her.  “Though seven dogs is a rather lot of them, Cait. You sure you want all of them?”

She turned to Alistair then, green eyes wide, wounded.  He sighed.

“Maker’s breath, I swear you love these dogs more than anything else,” he muttered.

“Thank you for understanding,” she replied, and then addressed Nathaniel again.  Little about him had changed since she had seen him last, just before she had left for the west, but in the years since they had first met he had gone from reluctant conscript to dutiful Warden.  More dutiful than her in many ways. Still, Caitwyn found that she was proud of this man, proud for how far he had come, for the hate and anger he had learned to let go of, and the calm confidence he had about him now.  The Vigil was in good hands, she knew, as were the Wardens who served there now.

“Vigil’s Keep is your command now, I can’t come back.  Neither of us can,” she told her former Lieutenant. She had not mentioned that Anders was on the ship at anchor out in the bay.  So as far as Nathaniel knew, she and Alistair had rowed in under cover of darkness in the small skiff by themselves.

“One of these days, you’ll tell me what happened.  One moment we’re hearing the Calling, Alistair is declared a traitor,” Nathaniel began.  

“Oh, yes, thank you for helping me get away from that first patrol,” Alistair said, loading the basket in to the skiff, next to their other things.  Nathaniel shrugged.

“You spoke sense, for once,” he remarked, tone dry.  “Then the Calling stops, everything goes back to normal, but you’ve both vanished.  And now, here you are. Not coming back, and no missives at all out of Weisshaupt.”

“Don’t expect any for some time.  Just do what you think is right, Nathaniel,” she advised.  “We can’t do anything other than that, in the long run.”

“From your lips to Andraste’s ears, Commander,” he replied.

“Not the Commander anymore, though I have one more favor to ask you,” she told him, shifting the box and holding out two letters.  Letters to her father, to Shianni. There was precious little she could tell her family and keep them safe at the same time, so letters would have to do, and she hoped her father would not curse her for this.  For having stayed away for so long and now to be told she would not be coming back. The Wardens might come looking for them one day, and she would not paint a target on her family.

“I’ll see they reach their destinations,” he promised, tucking the letters away.  Then he held out his hand. She grinned, and they clasped forearms. “Maker watch over you, Commander.”

“That’s you now.  Good luck, Commander,” she returned wryly, and he huffed, letting the matter drop.

“Farewell,” he said, pausing as the word _commander_ hovered on his lips, but he managed at last to say, “Farewell, Caitwyn, Alistair.  Good luck, with whatever your plans are,” he said, and he helped them push off. They rowed back out to the boat, where the crew of the deep-keeled cargo ship she had hired hauled them up.  They said nothing about the puppies or the two chests. With the money she was giving them, they asked no questions and made no comments. A ship with this much cargo space and that deep a keel was not always in legitimate trade, but could always be bought.  Though at least the captain and crew were clean, and a relatively well behaved sort.

She kept a tight hold on her lockbox, however, and she took it back to the cabin she shared with Alistair, and now seven mabari pups.  At least it would not be a long sea voyage.

“You going to try now?” he asked softly.  He’d been quieter than she had expected when talking to Nathaniel, but then he had not talked nearly as much as he had before Weisshaupt.  Though his injuries were healed, and Anders pronounced him physically recovered, it was his mind and heart that concerned her more. She did her best to track his progress, the steps he took back to himself, keeping notes in her head.  In moments like this, however, she made sure to take the time to hold him, to touch him gently. To let him know she was by his side, that he was not alone, not in that cell anymore. That no one would hurt him ever again.

Cupping his cheek with her palm, she stroked her thumb lightly across one of his new scars, something that she felt more than she saw in the low lamplight.  He leaned into her touch, closing his eyes for a moment and breathing out slowly.

“I want to get settled first.  Besides, I’d rather not have to try to make her track us over water.  It might irritate her,” she said quietly. Then he opened his eyes and arched one brow at her, the light of the lanterns dancing across his face as the boat rocked.

“How can you tell the difference?”

 

* * *

 

Near to the end of Bloomingtide, Alistair drove the cart as they rolled in to a sleepy little village north of Gwaren, a little place by the name of Devon-by-Sea.  It had all their worldly possessions in it, her lockbox, two chests which contained more armor and weapons than necessary, and a few spare clothes they had bought along the way.  Caitwyn, dressed in a simple tunic and breeches, sat in the cart with the pups, working on getting them to learn their names, and Anders sat on the cart bench next to Alistair, both men dressed for travel as she was.

The south-eastern quarter of Ferelden was about as far away from politics, Wardens, and the scars of various wars as one could get.  But staying in Gwaren itself held little appeal. The town bustled with everyone from sailors to elves making their way to and from the busy port.  A street led away from the town square lined with cramped hovels, the broken cobblestones dusted with the day’s trash. Caitwyn had passed it by without a qualm; she refused to stay in an Alienage again.  That was her past, it would not be her future. Instead, she had learned there were several villages scattered about, and Devon-by-Sea seemed the most congenial. It had a reputation for being relatively accepting of all sorts, so long as you were productive.

There was just the open question of what she and Alistair would _do_ once they settled in.

Her mother had trained her to be a pickpocket, thief, and a con-artist, but after her mother’s death she had tried to be the good, elven daughter her father had despaired of ever having.  She had learned how to cook and sew, though she was no gourmet and could manage aught else save sewing hems and replacing buttons. But she had expected to have children to look after as well.

That was a ship that had well and truly sailed when the wedding had been hijacked, and she had become a Grey Warden.  After that, the skills learned from her mother were turned to fighting, picking up forestry skills out of necessity. With her bow, perhaps she could hunt in the forest, and she had learned the language of her people from Merrill.  Maybe she could help trade with the local Dalish clans. What Alistair would get up to, she had no idea.

There was no plan beyond reaching to this point, where they would be settled enough to contact Morrigan to help cleanse them of the Taint.  A sliver of trepidation wormed through Cait’s chest to think of what came next. What came next would be finding out whether or not what she had found in the west of would be of use, and the dread that it would not.  Or worse. The Joining was not without risk, and Caitwyn had to assume the cure would be much the same.

But she packed those thoughts away in a little box, setting them to the side with an effort of will.  Instead, she tried to focus on right now, not the possible future that might or might not await her and Alistair.

“And we’re here,” Alistair declared, hopping down and hitching the horses on the post at the edge of the village.  Anders climbed down as well, and with his help she got the puppies down. They needed to stretch their little legs, too.

“Come on, pups,” she said, holding her right hand low and signaling them forward, they trailed her like a line of baby ducklings.

“I might like cats better, but even I have to admit that is one of the cutest things I have ever seen,” Anders commented, and Alistair chuckled.

“I know, Mabari pups are hard to resist.  They’re so eager to please,” Alistair replied, and Caitwyn ignored them.  She knew it was an adorable image, but she did not care to respond to being lumped in with cute puppies.  “Anyway, we better find the mayor, ask about a house or at least if there’s room over the tavern. I’d like to have a roof over our heads tonight.”

“That is precisely where I’m going,” Caitwyn said airily, walking through the village gate posts, taking in the place.  It was an idyllic little group of houses. A green space took up the center of the village with a small Chantry opposite it.  It boasted a stone foundation and wooden siding, instead of being entirely made of stone. Likely a place like this had a Sister or two, perhaps a Mother, but that was not guaranteed.  The village sloped down to the sea, where the low village wall tapered away, and a vibrant fishing community was on display. The docks were full of small fishing boats, coming and going, the fishers calling out the day’s catch, while others purchased or traded for that night’s dinner.  Close to the water was also another larger building, which looked like the local pub, not large enough to be a tavern, but a place where those who worked long days would come and drink at the end of it, and perhaps some rooms upstairs for those who drank more than they could handle. Up the slope there were more houses, and a gate to what looked like some fields between the village and the forest.

All in all, a quiet little place that could mostly maintain itself.

The mayor’s house was easy to find, a building with a fresher coat of paint and more solid door than the ones around it, with a little sign out front.  Caitwyn signaled for the pups to sit, which they did rather smartly she thought, though Violet, the runt of the litter, still sat funny, one leg tucked under her hip.  Knowing now was not the time for canine correction, she knocked on the door, which opened to reveal a small, plump human woman with salt-and-pepper hair and bright blue eyes.

“Hello, can I help you?” she asked.  Caitwyn put on her best smile, the one she had once upon a time used to charm people out of their valuables.

“Yes, my name is Caitwyn Tabris, and this is my husband Alistair… Tabris,” she said, supplying her last name for him after only a half beat.  They had done that before, going by her last name when taking some time away from Vigil’s Keep. He had seemed to enjoy being known as Alistair Tabris on those little excursions.  Alistair smiled as well, that disarming smile that had been part of what let him slip past her defenses when they had first met.

“Hello, ma’am, sorry to surprise you like this, but it has been a long day,” he said, aiming for and hitting the target of boyish, down on his luck charm.  Then he clapped Anders on the shoulder. “And this is my brother.”

“Andrick,” Anders supplied, dipping his head.  It had taken all of twenty seconds to decide that they couldn’t use the name _Anders_ , even here.  She was more commonly known as the Hero of Ferelden or the Warden-Commander, and few if any knew what she or Alistair looked like in this part of the world.

“Anyway, we’ve just come up from Gwaren, and we were hoping to find a place to settle here,” Caitwyn concluded.  “I was hoping to speak to the mayor to see if there were any houses we could purchase.”

“You are speaking to the mayor, dear,” the woman said, and she held out her hand to shake.  Caitwyn took it, and then she shook hand with Alistair and Anders as well. “Lunete Neam, at your service.  Come on, we can have a cup of tea.”

The woman retreated into the house, and out of a lack of any other option, Caitwyn followed her, Alistair a half step behind her.  Anders held back, though.

“I’ll keep an eye on the dogs,” he demurred, eyeing the homey interior warily.  Caitwyn let him be and followed the bustling, older woman.

“Now, it’s not completely unusual for an elf and a human to be seen together here, why we got our own Hetty married to a Dalish craftsman no less, and he’s the local smith now.  Pride of the village, he is. We’re a live and let live lot, us here. Had a few couples make their start here, running away from disapproving families, even! As long as you don’t cause a fuss and can earn your own keep, we do our best not to judge.  Maker knows there’s too much trouble as it is, after the Blight and the mages and Templars fighting, and then that hole in the sky! Ha! My word, things were not so mad when I was a young thing, but ah, perhaps I just never noticed, though I think I like to think I would have noticed such things even when I was a girl and had other things on my mind,” Lunete rambled on as she led them to a little sitting room, and Caitwyn shot a wide-eyed look at Alistair.  Alistair shrugged by way of response and inclined his head, urging her to keep following. There was a fire going, even in the summer, the sea breeze keeping the area cool. The older woman gestured to a low couch, and they sat.

“Would you like some tea, dears?” she asked, and both of them being too stunned to speak, could only nod.  Smiling, the mayor picked up the kettle and went to fill it from her water barrel.

“I think I know how she wins elections,” Caitwyn muttered.

“Hm, yes, she talks until they give in, and vote for her just to end the whole thing, I can see it,” he whispered, and she snorted in barely surprised laughter, just in time for Lunete to return.

“Oh, you’re so sweet, just starting out?” she asked.  They looked at each other for a moment while Lunete hung the kettle on a swinging arm and set it over the fire.

“Starting over, would be more accurate,” Caitwyn said, and it was the truth.  The core truth at least.

“Well, good for you,” the mayor said.  “While we wait, I can tell you we don’t really have any vacant homes, or space inside our walls, such as they are, to build another.  Oh dear, we really should fix those, but it means that space is rather limited.”

“Outside the walls would be alright,” Alistair said.  “We, uh, well Caitwyn here is handy with a bow and can hunt.  Wouldn’t want the neighbors complaining when she brings home a kill.”

“A hunter!  Ah, that’s good, it’s been a while since we had someone here with those skills.  A few of the other older ladies are good with herbs and such, but a hunter is always welcome.  Tell me, Alistair, what is it you and your brother do?” she asked, just as the kettle boiled.

“Well, I, uh, I was an armsman, of a sort, up north,” he said haltingly.  “My, uh, brother, yes, he was a surgeon, but I don’t know if he’ll be staying with us.  Mostly he came to help us settle in. Might go elsewhere once we’re sorted.”

“Oh, that’s nice of him,” Lunete said, her blue eyes flashing, and Caitwyn knew that the rambling, kindly old lady act was an act and yet not.  She _was_ a rambling, kindly old thing, but she also saw straight through people.  It took a con-artist to know one, she thought.

“I swear to you, Mayor Neam, we will bring no harm to this village,” she said, taking a gamble, but thinking it might pay off.  “We left behind a life that neither of us exactly asked for, and we really are here to try to settle down, to have something of our own.”

“And that, girl, is the first thing you’ve said that I believe,” the old woman said.  Then she slapped her knees, stood and busied herself pouring tea. “Alright, I’ll show you the old Creager place, and you can see if you like it well enough to go to the bother of fixing it up.  If you have coin, you could probably get some help from the men folk hereabouts. I have a hunch that you have coin in that box of yours.”

“Among other things, yes,” Caitwyn admitted, that very box sitting beside her while Lunete handed her a mug of tea.

“Other things being Mabari crunches,” Alistair said lightly, grinning, taking a sip of tea.

“The little hooligans get to them otherwise!” Caitwyn exclaimed at his jab.  “I swear, if they had thumbs they could open locks.”

“And you wanted to keep all seven.  Regretting that yet?” he asked, too sweetly.

“Slightly, maybe, I don’t want to talk about it.  Lunete, this is wonderful tea,” Caitwyn said, and the old woman laughed.

“Ah, you two are just fine,” she said, wiping away a tear.  “Finish your tea, and I’ll show the house. It’s on a hill, just to the north. I think you’ll like it.”

 

* * *

 

“This place is a dump,” Anders said, kicking at the debris that littered the floor.  Lunete had shown them the place, a little cottage on a hill, next to the sea. She had been rather hopeful at them about it, and Caitwyn had put on her best mask of polite, pleased interest.  Alistair, however, had enthused about the place. It was battered down and broken, but he kept pointing out things about it that made her think paying to fix it up might be worth it.

“Look!  The fireplace has those little hooks, and there’s little bread nooks to help dough rise, oh, that’ll be nice in winter, and look, plenty of space for the dogs around the fire, and it looks like there were two bedrooms, not that I’m anticipating many visitors, but still, that’s nice.  Oooh! There’s room for an expansion if we want,” he said, as they went back outside to look at the exterior.

Against her better judgment, she caught his enthusiasm.  It was run down, but they could fix that. Only one floor, but with multiple rooms, a luxury in a place like this, and Lunete said there was a storage cellar built under the hill with separate access.  It had easy access to the forest, and wasn’t too far from the village. It would afford them some privacy without being entirely standoffish and strange. There was also a path of white stones down the hill through the tall grass, ending at the sandy beach where the water lapped playfully at the shore.  During her time in the west, she had missed the scent of the ocean. She had grown up with the salty tang in the air, the Alienage close to Denerim’s docks, and she had enjoyed the cleaner version of it when she had commanded Vigil’s Keep. At the Vigil they knew better than to throw trash right into the surf, but Denerim’s waters had been fouled for so long no one saw the point in refraining from using the ocean as a trash dump.

The wind teased at her hair, picking up dark strands and playing it about her face.  Combing her hand through her long, dark hair, she looked out over the ocean, the blue waves stretching farther than the eye could see.  The sun kissed her dark skin, warming her cheeks even as the cool breeze came off the waves.

That was it, then.  This was where they would try to have a life together, just them.

Turning, she saw Alistair watching her, his expression soft, his heart in his eyes.  She was struck by how handsome he was, the wind ruffling up his blonde hair, neither of them in armor here, just simple, sturdy working breeches and tunics.  The gauntness in his face had filled out over the past month, now that he was able to keep more food down, as his stomach got used to regular meals again. Hand trailing through the tall grass, he walked toward her, taking deliberate steps.

Standing before her, he looked down, took her face in his hands and kissed her.  It was a toe-curling kiss, the kind he had given her before she had left to search for a cure, the kind that made her tingle all over, and she draped her arms over his shoulders, digging the fingers of one hand into his hair.  Pulling her body close to his, his hands fell away from her face to grab her hips and hold her against him. His tongue teased at her lips, and she let him in, mouth opening under his, breathing him in. She could feel his heart beat wildly against her chest, and her own heart responded in kind.  As the kiss deepened, he pulled her head back with one hand, the other arm braced across her back, lifting her feet off the ground, and he trailed kisses along her jaw and down her neck. She gasped, and he traced his way back up her neck with his nose, looking at her with a flare of desire.

Though they had slept side-by-side since he had come back to her in the Deep Roads, they had not done more than cuddle together for warmth and comfort since his rescue.  His body at first was too hurt, but even after he had healed, she had not wanted to push him further than he was willing to go. And he had not initiated anything. She understood.  She knew what it was to not be ready, to want and yet not at the same time, to be caught in a place where fear ran thicker than love and desire.

That had been her, once upon a time.  Her own demons had nearly driven them apart, but his patience and love had won through.  She could do no less for him now.

“Been a while,” she said quietly, without rancor or rebuke, just a statement of fact.  Her arms still looped around his neck, she nuzzled his jaw, enjoying the rasp of his stubble on her skin.  Holding her about her middle, he pressed his lips to her ear.

“Sorry about that, just… didn’t feel up to it, till now,” he said, voice a low rumble in her ear.

“It’s alright, but, hm, what changed?” she asked, her own voice pitched low in her chest, and she nipped at his chin, a wicked smile on her lips.  One arm still around her waist, he cupped her face with his left hand, running a thumb over her lips, hazel eyes so full of love for her.

“You, standing here, us together, the whole of it, a house, a home, or maybe you just looked so gorgeous, with your hair in the wind, I couldn’t resist any longer,” he said, teasing at the last.  Her heart felt full to bursting in that moment.

“Love you, so very, very much,” she said emphatically.

“And I love you, with all that I am,” he said, and the sincerity of it still floored her.  Even after all this time.

Then Anders coughed.  Alistair’s head fell forward, hitting Caitwyn’s shoulder in a moment of absolute despair before he looked back at the mage.  His head turned, Caitwyn could see that his ears were just a touch red. To be fair, she felt a bit of heat in her own ears as well.

“Aw, that’s sweet.  Been together over a decade and you still blush at being caught out, but if we’re to not be at the mercy of the elements, I suggest we clear a space in what could be only generously called a house and put up the tents, hm?” Anders asked, and Caitwyn rolled her eyes.

“Alright, alright, we’ll get to work.  Tomorrow you two can go into town and find some people willing to work for a combination of coin and barter, and I’ll start earning my keep as a hunter around these parts,” she said, sliding out of the circle of Alistair’s arm, but taking his hand in hers.

“Excellent,” Anders said, without much enthusiasm.  “It shall be camping until then, I assume.

“Anders, I found you living in a cave in the middle of a desert,” Caitwyn pointed out.  “You’ll live.”

The mage opened his mouth once, hand held up, as if to protest.  Then he seemed to reconsider his stance.

“Point.”  


	4. Cold Nights, Warm Lights

Caitwyn opened her small lockbox and took out the crystal Morrigan had left her a few years ago, after she had returned to fetch Kieran from Caitwyn’s care.  The boy had been left to Caitwyn while Morrigan had been in Serault. In the time since, Cait had never used it, not once. She had respected Morrigan’s wish to keep herself hidden, to avoid whatever remnants of her mother might still linger, and for the safety of her son.  But it had been a month since they had come to Devon-by-Sea. e The house was fully repaired, their horse and cart taken in trade for the labor and materials, and Anders was getting itchy feet.

Caitwyn knew it was time.

Sitting cross-legged on the bed, she turned the crystal over in her hands.  It was a small thing, a dull red, and did not reflect light like a normal crystal would, instead drawing the light into itself.  Alistair rolled over in their bed, blearily blinking sleep from his eyes. Propping himself up on his elbow, he rubbed her back, something he did when he knew she was thinking too much.

“You’re up early,” he murmured, and she looked to see the light of the dawn just edging through the gaps in the window shutters.

“Couldn’t sleep,” she replied.  Shifting on the bed, she ran a hand through his messy hair and he leaned in to her touch, turning his head to kiss her palm.  The blankets fell away from his chest as he sat up, etched with more scars courtesy of Weisshaupt. The scars in his mind were quiet, thankfully, in this peaceful place.  He wrapped one arm around her shoulders and pulled her close. She curled up against him, keeping the crystal in front of her eyes.

“What’s on your mind?” he asked, pulling strands of dark hair away from her face, tucking it behind her pointed ears.

“I was thinking it’s time,” she said, looking up at him.  “We can’t keep putting it off. Sooner or later we have to see if the research is worth anything.”

“I thought that might be it,” he said, his voice still a sleepy drawl.  “Come on, what’s the worst that can happen? Wait, forget I said that. Blame the early morning.  Aw, we’re doomed now aren’t we?” At his rambling, an amused huff escaped her lips. She knew he did this intentionally, but that didn’t stop it from working every time.

“Alright, then, here goes,” she said quietly and tapped the crystal as Morrigan had demonstrated years ago.  In the wake of her fingertips, lights traced along the crystal face, followed by a melodic rising set of chimes.  Then she held the crystal to her lips and spoke, “Morrigan, it’s Cait.” She paused, waiting for a reply, but none came.  Morrigan had not answered, but she recalled Morrigan’s words _if I do not answer, speak, and I will still hear you._   “If you can hear this… it’s not an emergency, but I need your help.  You said you could find me with this, so I hope you can come. It’s important, about the Taint.”

Then she pressed it again and the crystal pulsed with light, once, twice, three times, then dimmed.

“So, now we wait, I suppose?” Alistair asked.

“Now we wait,” she answered, her heart beating wildly, as if she could barely catch her breath even though she was still in their bed at home.  It was a cozy place, a bed just big enough for the two of them, covered in brightly colored, patterned quilts traded for fresh meat she had hunted down.  The walls were made of maplewood, and there were even curtains over the windows, and a thick sheep-skin rug on the floor.

It was their place, a place they had made for themselves, together, and she prayed it would be their place for a long time yet.

If the research was accurate.

If Morrigan answered her call.

If they survived the ordeal to come.

There were too many ‘ _if_ ’s for comfort, but the only way to survive was through the fire.  So she would go through one final conflagration, one final trial if it meant getting to have a life.  A real life with the man who had brought her light in the darkest of times, the man she had loved since she was eighteen and every day since.

But for now, all she could do was wait.

Wait, and wonder.

 

* * *

 

Kieran had been in Ferelden before, of course, but never for very long.  When Mother’s sending crystal had lit up, she had been gone and he knew better than to answer it.  Once she had returned to their apartments, he had told her about it, and she wasted no time in booking passage to Gwaren.  Mother said the message was from Caitwyn. He remembered staying with Caitwyn at Amaranthine when Mother had visited the Empress for a time.  He had liked her, and he had liked her dog very much, and Mother had pretended to be annoyed at that. Caitwyn had taken him down to the sea, where he had thrown a stick for Maethor while playing in the waves.

Ser Alistair had not been there, though.  He had only met the other Warden who had fought in the Blight at Skyhold, not long ago, but he had been busy, trying to help the other Wardens, and only spoken to Mother once and briefly.

But Kieran knew that something else was on Mother’s mind.  Since she had confronted Grandmother in the Fade, she had been different.  The dreams were gone, the songs and visions words and pictures that had been in his mind since he could remember, vivid images of dragons and cities, beautiful things consumed by blood and darkness, the song start sweet, but gaining an unsettling resonance.  They had scared him for a long time, but Mother had helped him, had him draw all he saw to take it out of his head. Mother knew him well, and he knew her well, too. He could tell when when was when she was working something out. She had been bracing herself for something, though she had not told him what it was.  She often kept things secret to protect him, though he did not know how to tell her that it was not always necessary.

He understood more than she would like him to.

Her hand rested on his shoulder as they walked through the village of Devon-by-Sea, the villagers milling about them, wrapping up in their own lives.  Some took notice of them, but they did not pry. It was a nice little village, he thought, with the smell of the sea on the wind and the forest comfortingly close.  Though it was colder this far south, colder even than Solace. Headed north, they passed the low, stone wall of the village and walked the path toward the cottage, set just off the path with a walls of light-colored wood--he didn’t know what kind--and a bloom of summer wildflowers painting the hillside in happy oranges and yellows.  It sat low, a chimney climbing up the westward side, smoke curling from it even though it was summer, perhaps to ward off the chilly wind off the ocean.

Mother’s stride lengthened, and he had to trot to keep up.  They were nearly to the door when it banged open to reveal a small, elf woman in breaches and a woolen tunic, her dark brown hair curly and hanging loose around her face.  Caitwyn’s mouth stretched into a grin, her slightly sharper canines giving her smile a fierce edge and her large green eyes seemed to spark with happiness.

“Morrigan!  You came!” she exclaimed, rushing out of the doorway and embracing Mother easily.  Mother was not one who touched easily, but there was no hesitation as she hugged the Warden in return.

“Of course, I came.  Had it ever entered your mind that I would not?” Mother asked, her tone arch, but Kieran could tell by the smile she tried to hide how happy she was to be welcomed so.  Caitwyn shook her head, but then addressed Kieran.

“Good to see you again, Kieran.  You’ve grown, though that’s to be expected,” she said, enfolding him in a hug.  He did not remember her being so small, so slight, but he had been seven when he had seen her last.  “Ah, come in, come in. Alistair and Anders are getting a few more supplies, apparently we need a better pan and a few other things besides, but they should be back soon.”

She led them inside, the ceiling a little low, but rather than cramped, it made the house feel cozy, warm, a safe place.  A fire crackled in the stone fireplace, and he could smell a roast something cooking, the scent of meat and onions filling the whole place.  By the fire were seven fat bundles of fur, that upon closer inspection he found were a litter of Mabari puppies. He turned almost immediately to Mother, a silent question written on his face.  Mother smiled gently.

“You had best ask our host, Kieran,” Mother said, and he turned to Caitwyn, his eyes hopeful.  She laughed and waved at him.

“Go for it.  They’re Maethor’s last litter, and I’m sure they’ll like you as much as their sire did,” she said, and without any hesitation he sat on the floor and started stroking the puppies’ soft fur. Some of them roused with large-mouthed, sharp-toothed yawns.

“Have you eaten?” he heard Caitwyn ask, and Mother’s answering chuckle.

“Look at you, once a Warden and Commander, Hero of Ferelden.  Now, what are you? Keeper of a home? A village wife?” Mother said, and though the words might sound harsh, he could hear the fondness in her tone.  Of all the people in the world, Mother trusted Caitwyn before all others.

“What am I?  Right now?” Caitwyn returned, and Kieran looked up from the puppies even as they were waking up and starting to clamber all over him, demanding his attention. Caitwyn was gazing out the heavy glass window that faced the direction of the town, likely to where Ser Alistair was.  “I’m happy is what I am.”

“Then I shall do all in my power to help you maintain that, my friend,” Mother said, taking Caitwyn’s smaller hand in her own, and Kieran smiled, returning his attention back to the puppies and their little waggy bottoms, squirming and yipping for him.  Then suddenly they climbed on him and managed to knock him down, and he laughed, under a pile of seven Mabari puppies.

“Caitwyn!  Help!” he gasped in between laughter from being tickled by puppy tongues.

“Should I?” the elf asked.

“Hm, perhaps not.  It might be an important lesson for him,” Mother said.

“Mother!” he cried indignantly.

That was when the door opened, and Kieran looked up from the floor, unable to fend off the horde of puppies, and saw Ser Alistair for the second time.  The tall man looked down at him, his face a mix of surprise, amusement, and something almost sad, Kieran thought.

“So,” Alistair said only after half a beat, “we’re feeding the dogs children now?  That’s probably not going to endear us to the neighbors, you know.”

Then one of the dogs licked Kieran right in the ear.  He thought the whole thing just unfair at that point.

 

* * *

 

Caitwyn had not bothered to control herself when she had seen Morrigan and Kieran out the window, walking up the path to the house.  Two months after freeing Alistair from Weisshaupt, a month after being fully settled here, and Morrigan had arrived. She had arrived Caitwyn and Alistair could finally be free of what had haunted them for a decade.  The shadow that hung over her heart when she thought about what she would have to face one day in the Deep Roads, the oil-slick fear of what she would one day become, mother to abominations, was about to be banished. She knew Morrigan had more recent troubles of her own, and that she came anyway meant the world to Caitwyn.

“Well, what do you think?” she asked, pouring another cup of tea for Morrigan.  Kieran had fallen asleep on a makeshift pallet on the floor after dinner and the four adults had conferred as the night wore on.  Anders had been able to pour over the research Caitwyn and Merrill had found since they had arrived in Devon-by-Sea, and had smiled to see the helpful notations and drawings that the Dalish mage had added to what they had found in the west.  Morrigan muttered darkly as she examined the papers for herself, brushing off any and all attempts Anders made to explain things to her.

Suppressing a sigh and closing her ears to another round of low-voiced bickering, Caitwyn’s eyes drifted to where Kieran slept surrounded by puppies.  She knew Alistair had a hard time not looking at the boy as well, a boy he had met but once before, a boy he had endured much to protect. Morrigan and Anders sat in worn, mismatched chairs that they had scrounged from the village, sipping tea at the round table in their den.

Morrigan shifted the papers Caitwyn had brought back from the west and sat back from the table, casting a quick glance at Anders.  Anders sat stiffly, arms crossed over his chest. The mages knew each other only by reputation, and neither seemed remotely impressed.  They eyed each other like rival tomcats. With a clear exercise of will, however, they kept a lid on their mutual wariness. For her sake, Caitwyn thought, which was good enough for her.

“To say that this ritual is dangerous would be an understatement,” Morrigan said, for once hedging around what she was thinking.  Her fingers idly tapped the table, and her rich tones had an unusual touch of hesitation. Caitwyn raised an eyebrow at one of her oldest, dearest friends, silently demanding straight answers.  Alistair sat at the very edge of his chair and glanced from Caitwyn to Anders to Morrigan, worry darkening his hazel eyes.

“The biggest problem is that breaking the connection to the darkspawn in and of itself could kill you,” Anders detailed, laying it all out bluntly.  “Even if Morrigan can remove the Taint from you both, and I can keep you alive through the ritual your bodies, Maker help me, all our bodies, have become used to drawing on that power to keep us going.  You could die from sheer shock alone. Even after that, you will both be relatively weak. Recovery will not be immediate, and you will not regain the same strength and stamina you now have, because you will not have the Taint to draw on any longer.”

Caitwyn’s heart sank, but she kept the fear, the worry, the despair off her face.  Judging from the hint of pleading in Anders’ tone, she knew that he was preparing for rejection.  That the mages--as much as they disliked even being in the same room together--seemed to be united in deeming the ritual too great a risk to take.  Alistair glanced at the mages, fear flickering across his face. Fear that what they had sought for would be forever out of their reach, and fear of losing her.  Though in a sense, coming this far and failing would be losing each other, if not now, then eventually. Lost to the corruption inside of them. But then he caught her eye, and she saw a determination in the line of his jaw and the set of his shoulders.  

“Right, then,” he said,  bracing his hands on his thighs.  “I’ll go first. I’ll be the test case.  If it works, then Caitwyn.”

“Alistair, no,” she said sharply, fingernails digging in to the palms of her hands, throat tight with fear.  “No.”

“You can’t forbid me this, Cait, not this.  I was tortured, I can endure,” he said, fixing his gazeon her, pinning her to the spot with the weight of a decade of love and patience and knowledge of all they had done for each other, the dark and the light.

“You can’t always play that card to get whatever you want!”

“I don’t!”

“Then why did I let you name one of the dogs Lord Fluffybutt the Third?” she demanded.

“Didn’t take anyway, so that doesn’t count,” he said sulkily, and they had come back around to it again.  Another moment in time where they might be lost to each other forever. How many more times would that happen before the world let them be?

“If you die,” she said through clenched teeth, “I will find a necromancer to raise you, so I can kill you all over again.”  Out the corner of her eye she saw Anders shift, as if he wanted to be anywhere but here, and Morrigan focused her attention on the papers that detailed the cure ritual.  She had been a deeply reluctant witness to more awkward conversations than this, ten years prior.

“I expect nothing less, love,” Alistair said, voice soft, and he gently took her hand, squeezing it.  Then he fixed a stern gaze at Morrigan and Anders. “Well, when can we start?”

“I will require two days to prepare,” Morrigan said, raising her head from the rescued papers once more.  Her tone was brisk but not harsh as it might have been a decade ago. Caitwyn kept hold of Alistair’s hand and nodded.

“Two days, then.  Two days.” Two days until their lives were changed, one way or another.

 

* * *

 

Caitwyn moved silently through the forest, Morrigan following behind, both women in sturdy leather breeches and woolen tunics to prevent scratches from branches and nettles.  Morrigan’s footsteps rustled the leaves, but she still moved with the easy grace of someone who had grown up in the Wilds. Kieran, however, tromped through the undergrowth like the city boy he was.  The morning sunlight filtered through the trees, bird song drifted through the air, and she was glad they weren’t on a hunt. Alistair and Anders had gone darkspawn hunting. Caitwyn had sensed their presence when she had been exploring further into the forest last month, likely opportunistic scavengers drawn up from the Deep Roads by the chaos of the torn Veil.  There had been so few, she’d had to get close to be sure, but they were there. The goal was to gather blood for the ritual, an echo of the Joining she had undertaken.

When Morrigan and Anders had tried to explain the ritual to her, it felt like the information went in one ear and out the other.  Phrases like _sympathetic resonance_ and _sync-anchor_ were said, and while they were words she knew, putting them together to make something intelligible was another story.  Magic had never been her area of study. It was about removing the Taint, which was good enough for her.

Looking at Kieran over her shoulder, currently trailed by seven yipping half-grown Mabari, she couldn’t help but cast a worried glance at Morrigan.  Varric had told her that Morrigan had completed a ritual at the Temple of Mythal, had done something perhaps unwise, but he had not related the details of it.

“I heard you helped the Inquisitor,” Caitwyn said, her voice breaking the relative quiet of the morning.  Morrigan stood, plucking an herb with a twist of her wrist and tucking it away in to one of her many pockets.  Her old friend regarded her with those piercing yellow eyes, only to slide her gaze away.

“I know what you are asking, and I was perhaps over eager in my willingness to preserve the Well of Sorrows,” Morrigan allowed, weaving around a deadfall to draw even with Caitwyn.  And out of Keiran’s earshot. “I am… bound to Mythal now. Who, as it happens, is my mother.”

“I suppose it was too much to think we’d actually killed your mother,” Caitwyn said carefully, the only betrayal of her surprise was the barest twitch of her eyebrow.  Morrigan exhaled sharply, her eyes narrowing.

“It did provide me with the time necessary to ensure our safety, and there is more.  You should know that Kieran is free of the Old God’s Soul. He is a normal boy now, simply himself, thanks to Mythal.  She removed it from him,” Morrigan said, and at that, a decade old weight lifted from Caitwyn’s heart. It had been a blind, selfish choice all those years ago.  It was a choice she had not regretted since it had saved Alistair’s life, though that very lack of regret compounded the guilt that had weighed on her ever since.  Almost without realizing it, she had reached out to hold Morrigan's arm and the other woman covered her hand with her own.

“Oh, I… Morrigan, after this, if there is anything Alistair or I can do to help you, to deal with your mother again...  We will help, you know that,” Caitwyn said. Her words were succinct, but true, holding all the gratitude and love she felt for the woman who had become one of her dearest friends in all the world.  Morrigan’s lips twisted in a smile that was part bitter, part grateful.

“No, there is nothing that can be done.  I took this burden of my own free will, and I must face the consequences,” she replied. Her eyes shifted to where her son played, tossing a stick and all seven puppies chasing after it like a furry horde.  “There might be one thing, however, that you could do, but we will speak of it after you are cured.”

Caitwyn followed Morrigan’s gaze and thought she might have some idea what the request would be.  But she would let it lie for now.

“You really think it can be done?  You seemed hesitant last night, until Alistair volunteered,” Caitwyn said as they resumed their walk, adjusting the hunting bow she carried over her shoulder.  Her warbow, though useful, could draw too much attention if a local happened to cross their path.

“Alistair is heartier than you, my friend, and more likely to survive should we encounter any surprises on the first attempt,” Morrigan said in her dry, explanatory tone.

“As much as I hate to admit it, that’s probably true, but he’s only just fully recovered from what the Wardens at Weisshaupt did to him.  If you can minimize his pain as much as possible, _I_ would appreciate it,” Caitwyn said, green eyes glinting in the morning light.

“Hold a moment, what happened?  When I left Skyhold, the Wardens seemed returned to the fold, though there had been no word from the fortress.  Do you mean to tell me that they tortured one of their own?” Morrigan demanded and she turned her head sharply, spearing Caitwyn with a sharp-eyed gaze.  

“They wanted to know how we both lived, yes, and they convinced him I was dead.  But he didn’t break, Morrigan. For Kieran, he didn’t break,” Caitwyn said, voice soft, and Morrigan sighed.

“It would be much simpler to continue to find him annoying if he was not so insufferably noble at times,” the other woman groused, though her heart clearly was not in it, and shard of laughter escaped Caitwyn.

“You two finally respect each other, admit it.  It only took a decade of being mostly apart,” Caitwyn teased.

“Nothing of the sort.  I simply do not find him so irritating, likely because I must no longer remain upwind of him to preserve my sense of smell,” Morrigan maintained, reaching down to gather another herb with a little more vigor than strictly necessary.  Caitwyn kept her face perfectly bland, but she let her amusement flicker in her eyes.

“Of course, Morrigan.  Of course,” she allowed, then switched tracks and called out to Kieran.  “Kieran, your mother still has herbs to gather. Do you want me to show you a hawk’s nest I found?  There’s a good vantage from a nearby tree, and the chicks should have all their feathers by now. You remember what I taught you about climbing, right?”

“Yes!  That’s alright, isn’t it, Mother?” Kieran asked in his high, childish voice, running up to them with his comet’s tail of dogs.

“Oh, go on.”  Morrigan rolled her eyes and gestured for them to go.  Caitwyn grinned, and wrapping an arm around the boy’s shoulders, she walked deeper in to the forest, a bright, almost unfamiliar flare of hope resting behind her breastbone.

 

* * *

 

Alistair caught sight of the house and picked up his pace, forcing Anders to trot to keep up.  It was more than just a house, though. It was the home he and Cait had been making for themselves since arriving in the village.  Home, he thought, what a wonderful word that, home. Home, where Caitwyn wore her dark hair long and loose, where she hummed as she kneaded bread, where she taught him how to darn his own socks, a hundred, thousand little precious moments that made what had been a near ruined house a home.  Never in all his life had he ever felt so right as when he walked up the path to the house, pressed the latch, and opened the door to see Cait sitting at their little round table cupping a steaming mug in her hands. She turned to smile at him as he entered the house, making his heart flutter like it had when he’d first realized how pretty she was, when they had been young and stupid.  Well, mostly him being stupid. Maker, she even wore hair long again, that bramble dark curls that he adored.

Morrigan sitting opposite Cait somewhat tarnished the picture. Although the sight of Kieran by the fire again, lying flat on his stomach reading a book, legs kicking in the air with the dogs collapsed around him was a little more complicated.  It had been a relief to know that he was a relatively normal child when Alistair had met him at Skyhold, or as normal as a boy could be with Morrigan for a mother. Part of him had wanted to approach Kieran, to ask him all sorts of questions about how he had grown up, what he liked, to know the boy as a father might know his son.  Another part of him felt like he was betraying Caitwyn to even think such things. As it was, he’d had a mission with the Inquisition and put the whole thing out of mind. But with Kieran here, in the house, it was hard to avoid those thoughts entirely.

“We return victorious,” he announced, putting the issue of Kieran out of his mind.   Wiping his boots on the mat, he then moved aside for Anders to do the same.

To Alistair’s surprise, he and Anders had worked well together, though they had given the topic of Kirkwall and mages a wide berth.  They had not known each other well before this. Anders had left not long after Alistair first reached the Vigil, and he had been more interested in seeing Cait besides.  Yet, for all the man’s past deeds, deeds Alistair had roundly condemned him for, there was no getting around the fact that Anders had helped Caitwyn, at the Vigil and at Weisshaupt.  Nor the fact that Anders had helped heal him, body and mind after his extended stay at the Warden’s leisure.

Instead of rehashing the past, they had focused on the task in front of them.  Anders was not much of a hunter, but the man was a talented mage, and his defensive spells made the difference as Alistair took on the small nest of darkspawn.  Then Anders proved useful again. A healer, he was hardly squeamish and gathered the blood they needed without a qualm. Then they wasted no time getting back as quickly as possible.  Alistair to return to Caitwyn, and Anders because now that the man was no longer living in a cave, seemed to hate sleeping out of doors with a passion.

“Ah, my hero,” Caitwyn said lightly, rushing to him and standing on tip-toe to kiss him.  Grinning at her like the idiot he knew he was, he held her for a moment before letting her go to remove his armor.  The straps were easy enough to undo by himself, but Cait’s deft hands moved to help, undoing the straps at his back as he removed his scabbard.

“What?  Nothing for me?” Anders asked, leaning his staff by the door and shrugging out of his coat.

“Welcome back, Anders,” Cait said dutifully, though her smile made her cheeks dimple.  Anders shook his head and sighed.

“Always the same, heal me, Anders.  Help me not die, Anders. Not even a bloody kiss,” the mage grumbled, though without any real ill feeling, Alistair thought.

“The dogs will give you lots of kisses, if that’s what you’re after,” Caitwyn teased, which made even Morrigan snort with laughter.  Anders held his hands up, signaling defeat.

“I rescind my request,” he said quickly.  “Though, if there is any food, it would be welcome.”

“You’re in luck, Morrigan cooked tonight.  I even wrote down what she did, so I can make it again,” Caitwyn said, jerking her head at the table, where a side of roasted beef rested.

Anders headed to the table eagerly, thanking Morrigan as he piled his plate high with meat, roast vegetables and fresh bread.  Before long, Alistair and Cait had removed his armor, setting it against the wall, his sword and shield placed over it. They would store it all away again, the armor of a quality far too high to be seen around this area, and he didn’t feel upset at the thought of never having to wear it again.  That part of his life was over, and without a pang to worry his conscience at all. Standing, he was startled to feel Caitwyn’s arms wrap around him from behind, her cheek pressed against his back.

“You probably don’t want to do that.  I’m rather sweaty,” he said softly, covering her hands with his own.

“Don’t care about that, just glad you’re back,” she said, her voice muffled, and her easy admission of how much she cared for him still made his heart flutter, ten years later.  He could recall that it took her months to say _I love you_ , and even longer to say it without closing her eyes.

And they had been captured at Fort Drakon of all places.

“Good to be back,” he replied, and drew her around to his side, an arm about her waist.  He leaned down and kissed the top of her head, her hair smelling of lavender and soap.

“You had best stop doing whatever unfortunate display of affection you are engaging in.  It might put Anders off his dinner,” Morrigan said, breaking the moment. Alistair sighed, his shoulders slumping, but knew the woman only did it because it annoyed him.

“Right, then, better eat up.  Tomorrow will be an interesting day,” he said, trying and failing not to feel nervous.  Tomorrow would be a day that, if all went well, and all _would_ go well, because he couldn’t think of the alternative, was the day their life together would truly begin.

“Actually, we’re not supposed to eat,” Cait said, breaking in to his stream of thought.  “Morrigan said so.” Alistair raised his head to glare at the witch, who looked a touch too smug to be entirely without ulterior motive.

“You did that on purpose, didn’t you?” he asked, eyes narrowed. He searched her face and could tell by the barest twitch of her eyebrow and the smug set of her mouth that she wasn't being entirely forthright. The _witch_.

“I do not know what you mean, Alistair.  I had thought it best to prepare some food in advance, as tomorrow we all will no doubt be rather exhausted.  Moreover, Anders and I both need our strength. We must have a good meal and be well rested, for your safety of course,” Morrigan said airily in that superior tone he knew and detested from ten years prior.  Anders wore a smug grin as he bit into a delicious bite of roast and none of this was helping Alistair’s mood. A reply was on the tip of his tongue when Cait gave his arm a tug. She shook her head ever so slightly.  With a sigh, he let it go.

“Then we might as well sleep,” he said shortly, and took Cait by the hand, making for their room but stopped when he heard Kieran pipe up.

“That was a bit mean, Mother,” the boy said, glancing up only briefly from his book.  The complete shock and betrayal on Morrigan’s face made holding back his initial reply entirely worth it.  Biting the inside of his cheek to keep from laughing, Cait tried to shove him in the direction of their room, but he planted his feet and was unable to resist one parting shot.

“Kieran, just for that, I’m giving you one of the puppies,” he said, which made Morrigan audibly sigh, her head falling in to one of her hands. She was the picture of utter despair.

“Really?!  Thank you, Ser Alistair!” Kieran exclaimed, jumping up and running to him.  He threw his thin arms around Alistair’s waist, and his bright, hazel eyes were delighted.  “I promise, I’ll look after whichever one I pick, and train it, and take really good care of it.  Mother hasn’t let me have a pet before, but this is a gift, so she has to now.”

None of the adults in the room breathed for a moment, and he couldn’t bear to look at Caitwyn’s face.  They had only rarely talked of Kieran and had never spoken of the children they couldn’t have together, but here in this little house, his son was hugging him, though the boy didn’t know their true relation.  Tamping down the sudden ache in his chest, he fixed a smile on his face and patted the boy’s shoulder.

“Just Alistair these days, Kieran, and I’m sure you’ll look after the pup perfectly well,” he said gently, unable to keep the thickness from his voice.

“Kieran, let Alistair go.  He and Caitwyn need their rest,” Morrigan said, her voice noticeably  gentle.

“Yes, Mother. Sorry Ser, I mean Alistair, Caitwyn.  I hope everything goes well for you both tomorrow,” he said confidently, and let Alistair go.

“Thank you, Kieran, I’m sure your mother and Anders will see us through,” Caitwyn said easily.  She gave the boy a quick hug and gently nudged him back to his spot by the fire. Kieran returned to his pallet by the hearth, apparently oblivious to what had just happened, and began to scrutinize the puppies.  Cait looked to the mages, but kept a firm hold of Alistar’s arm. “Good night, you two, we’ll see you in the morning, I guess.”

“Yes, sleep as best as you can,” Anders said, waving them on.  “We’ll be ready.”

Morrigan said nothing, but her eyes were thoughtful as she watched Alistair and Cait retreat through the door to their bedroom.  Caitwyn, still holding on to Alistair’s arm, guided him to their bed and he sat sank down into the thick feather mattress. Mechanically, he removed his boots and pulled his shirt over his head, throwing it on the floor in a heap. Caitwyn lit a few candles and changed into her brief nightshirt.  Bare legged, Cait perched on a low stool by the solid vanity and began braiding her dark, curly hair. He watched her, her fingers deft and delicate the candlelight giving her skin a deeper hue, and he thought she looked so beautiful, so perfect in that moment. Guilt suddenly washed over him.

“I’m sorry,” he whispered, his head falling into his hands.  “I’m sorry.” He didn’t hear her move, but he did feel her hands grasp his and pull them away from his face.  She looked up at him earnestly from her knees in front of him, her green eyes searching his own.

“For what?  What in the world do you have to be sorry for?” she asked, and he knew she meant it.How she meant it, he had no idea, but she did.  Then her lips quirked ever so slightly. “I mean, other than giving away one of the puppies without asking me first.”

It took him half a second to realize she was joking.

“I thought delivering quippy one-liners to lighten the mood was my job around here,” he replied dryly., as she sat on the bed next to him, tucking herself under his arm.

“Well, you were falling down on the job,  so I thought I would take over for a bit. Though feel free to resume at any time.  How do you do this? It’s harder than it looks.” Her tone was light, but there was such understanding in her eyes that it nearly undid him.  He grinned, a wan, pale thing, but he managed it, and kissed her.

“Glad to see my efforts are still appreciated.”  It wasn’t much of a reply, that, but he felt like he was starting to get his balance back, though he knew it would be a long time before he could forget the delicate shape of his son in his arms.  Maker help him, _his son_.

“Alistair,” she said, her voice breaking back into the stream of his thoughts, her slim dark hand stroking through his hair.  “You wouldn’t be the man I loved if you didn’t feel anything for Kieran at all.” Feeling like he’d just been hit upside the head with a maul, he could only stare at her for moment.

“How can you say that?  How can you be so calm about it?  I don’t understand.” He shook his head, breaking the contact between them, but she wasn’t about to let him go that easily.  She tugged on his hand, and though she could hardly move him if he didn’t want to be moved, he let himself be drawn down to lie next to her on the quilt. Her hands stroked his face, rough with the callouses of the hard lives they had lived, but gentle all the same.

“I made my peace with it a long time ago.  As it is, I worry for you, how it hurts you in ways _I_ can’t understand to have him here, but so far away at the same time,” she explained, voice quiet against the hushed crash of the ocean waves that filtered in through the open window.

“It was easier, before I ever saw him, easier to not think about him, to not wonder about everything I missed,” he said, the words pulled up from the pit of his stomach, tasting wrong, but still the truth.  He made himself look at her, as they curled together, face to face, on the bed they shared. “And then I feel like a right bastard, no pun intended, for thinking that. Because it felt like I was betraying _you_.”

“Alistair,” she said softly, her voice barely above a whisper.

“Yes?” he asked in kind, his vision full of her, her soft hair and dark skin and green eyes and perfect mouth.  Then she nipped at his nose, her sharp teeth making him blink in surprise.

“Don’t be an idiot,” she said bluntly, levering herself up and holding him down by his shoulders, her braid swinging between them.  “It’s not a betrayal of me to care about Kieran or regret what you missed of his life. It’s. Not. You couldn’t betray me even if you tried, so stop raking yourself over the coals about it. I could make it an order, if that’d help.”

“Technically, neither of us have any rank now, so you can’t order me to do anything anymore,” he drawled, placing his hands over hers, squeezing tightly.  Though his words were teasing, he felt his throat tighten, marveling at her, thanking the Maker for her.

“Damn, I didn’t think that one through,” she said, her eyes dancing with amusement.

“No, you really didn’t, did you?” he retorted, running his hands up her bare arms, tracing the lines of the muscles there, earned by years of drawing back a bow.

“I’m sure I’ll manage to live with it,” she said huskily, leaning down to kiss him softly, tenderly.  “Somehow. Because it seems that I love you, rather quite a lot in fact.”

“Is that so?  Hm, lucky me,” he murmured against her lips.  Cupping her head with his hands, his thumbs stroked the line of her pointed ears.  He put his whole heart in to his voice, and told her the truest thing he knew, “I love you, Cait, so much.”

He kissed her then, long and sweet, his hands drifting up under the hem of her night shirt to trace up the curve of her back and she moaned low in the back of her throat.  Her hands drifted down to the ties on his breeches and all thoughts of being properly rested fled. At least for a little while. Later, he held her in the circle of his arms, her breathing steady and even by the light of the moon that streamed in through the open window, the candles burned out long ago. Carefully, he drew the blankets up around them both, feeling the temperature dropping already, and let his eyes drift shut, ready to face whatever tomorrow brought. But he couldn’t help one last prayer: _Maker, please, don’t take her somewhere I can’t follow_.

Because it was out of their hands now, if it had ever been there in the first place.


	5. Sleepers Awaken

It was barely morning, the sun not yet over the horizon, and a shiver ran through Caitwyn, though not just because of the crisp air.  Neither Morrigan nor Anders could say what the ritual would look like, how much noise it would produce, or how disturbing it might be.  So rather than risk any curious investigation from the nearby villagers, they had left the house when it was still dark, heading for an old, elven ruin in the forest not too far away.  It was a pleasant place, and Cait had thought as much when she had first found it while scouting the woods, a little rotunda decorated with halla statues and bas relief trees and plants twining along the base and up the pillars.  The roof was entirely gone, but the basic structure still stood.

Kieran trudged along beside Morrigan,  He held Violet, the runt of the litter and his apparent favorite, in his arms.  The other puppies she had left in their pen in the lee of the house; they were smart enough by now not to go wandering too far once ordered to stay put.  They had whined somewhat, but they had food and water and if it all went wrong, they would be given to local villagers who would treasure such prized animals.

Caitwyn led the way through the forest, the dew on the grass wetting the leather of her boots, and soon they were at the clearing where the ruin stood.  Trotting up the low, stone steps to the base of the roofless rotunda, she flung her pack down and began to set up her bedroll. Alistair did the same beside her.  They both remembered the Joining, how it knocked them flat, and had decided it was much better to start the whole process while lying down.

Morrigan set Kieran up a distance away, the boy crawling into a small tent so he could get back to sleep and be shielded from whatever might happen.  He seemed at ease around magic, not overly concerned about whatever forces were about to be at work, though he apparently lacked magical aptitude himself.  Then again, with Morrigan for a mother, it was likely Kieran considered magic to be the normal state of things.

Anders knelt in front of them, then, his long coat brushing at the stone while pink and pale orange fingers of light began to streak through the grey sky, painting the underside of the sparse clouds that drifted above the clearing.  The finest living healer in all of southern Thedas regarded them both with serious brown eyes. In the last few months since she hauled him out of his cave, he seemed to have gained a delicate balance in himself. Something of the man she remembered from Vigil’s Keep had returned, rather than the murderously angry thing he had become in Kirkwall.

So many sins contained in the four of them here, dark things done to live, to grow, to not suffer fates they could not bear.

“I need to prepare you both for something,” Anders began, his hands clasped in front of him.  “Your bodies will be under incredible strain, and I might have to call on the spirit within me for extra power.  It has not acted on its own in some time, though I know he recalls you fondly Caitwyn. You were very kind to it, in Amaranthine, and I think it regrets leaving you.  If Justice, if he can still be called that, decides to help, I cannot predict what he’ll do. Its notion of help is not always, ah, what we might expect.”

“Oh good, what’s an unknown and untested magical ritual without unpredictable help from a spirit that might still like _you_?” Alistair said, tilting his head toward her, his words a sharp rush, betraying his anxiety.  Caitwyn could not deny that the warning made her nervous as well, her mouth dry with anticipation about the whole thing, but she placed a hand on Alistair’s forearm, and he stilled.

“Thank you for the warning, Anders,” she said, and he nodded, standing and moving away, letting them get settled.  She shifted on her bedroll, sitting with her legs tucked up underneath her, trying not to think about what was to come next.  Alistair ran a hand through his blonde hair, his skin less pale than it had been just after Weisshaupt, though his features were pinched with worry.

Morrigan walked up the stairs and joined them, a woolen wrap about her shoulders in deference to the chilly morning.  She sat opposite them, in breaches for once rather than that fringed skirt she once favored. Her yellow eyes were clear, her expression as confident as ever, and Caitwyn knew it was Morrigan’s own way of comforting them.

“It is time,” Morrigan said.  She withdrew two vials from the bag over her shoulder to set them before Caitwyn and Alistair, and then unsheathed the knife she wore on her belt.  It was a slim, sharp thing, and clean. Alistair went first, uncorking the vial and readying it to catch his blood. Morrigan took his hand and made a shallow cut along the heel of his palm, red blood welling and dripping slowly in to the container.  Meticulously, Morrigan cleaned the blade, producing a small ball of fire in her off-hand to be sure nothing of Alistair’s blood lingered, and then she turned to Caitwyn. Doing the same as Alistair had, Caitwyn readied the vial, and Morrigan’s hand gently cupped her own, holding it steady as she cut Cait in the same place.  Once both vials were full, they each capped them and handed them to Morrigan, who had already cleaned her knife once more and sheathed it again.

With one vial of blood in each hand, Morrigan rose, setting the vials on either side of a cup Anders had set out.  Caitwyn watched as Morrigan took out the darkspawn blood Anders and Alistair had gathered and poured half of it in to the cup, and she readied the vial that Alistair had given her.  Caitwyn heard Alistair’s hissing intake of breath, and they turned to each other, lying down face to face on their bedrolls, hands clasped tightly together.

The sun had risen above the treeline, and the golden light of the dawn spread through the leafy branches overhead, giving the forest a peaceful air that clashed with the jangling, nervous energy that ran through her.  Her breathing came in shallow gasps, and now that they were coming to it, she trembled. She could hear Morrigan start to chant, and it seemed like the breeze that stirred their hair had been conjured by the mage’s voice alone.

“I’ve got you, Cait, I’m here,” Alistair told her.  As he had told her every time her fears had started to get the better of her, when she had struggled to overcome the memory of her close brushes with rape in Denerim, when nightmare after nightmare about the Deep Roads plagued her sleep, when she was not in her element and let him, only ever him, see how scared it made her.   _Her touchstone_.  Letting out a shaky breath, she gripped his hands tighter, the chanting from Morrigan gaining a strange echo, and Anders settled on to the stone above their heads, one hand on each of their shoulders.  For all that, she fixed her eyes to Alistair’s face, drawing strength and reassurance from the steady love she saw there.

A clap of thunder echoed above them, the wind howled in her ears, and she thought she could detect a blue glow out the corner of her eye, and that was when things got weird.

 

* * *

 

“Oh no, not this again,” Alistair said, and Caitwyn blinked.  Or she imagined she was blinking, because she looked around and saw what could only be the Fade, the strange watery green tinge to everything a dead giveaway.  They stood in the memory of the rotunda, the roof intact here, and the trees around them slightly different. Like the last time she had been in the Fade, everything felt wrong, as if she were on a ship and couldn’t get her footing.  Not to mention that there was no smell to anything.

“At least we’re not here physically,” she offered, trying to ignore the queasiness in her stomach.

“Small favors, but why are we here?  More importantly, how are we here?” he asked, turning around, trying to take some measure of the place.

“Because I brought you here,” a voice intoned, a strange multilayered sound.  Anders appeared, though it wasn’t exactly Anders. It was his body, his shape, but his eyes glowed blue, and cracks and fissures cross-crossed his skin, the glow seeping out from between them.

“Justice.  Been a while,” Caitwyn said, wary.  Though the spirit she remembered had inhabited the body of a dead man, this was not necessarily the same entity.  She knew precious little about magic and spirits besides, but she knew people, and if one could call a spirit a person then Justice was a very different person from the one she had met years ago.

“Yes, and no.”  The voice was a combination of Anders and the spirit’s intertwined to create a dissonant doubling echo in the Fade.  When she gestured for him to go on, to explain, he did not elaborate.

“Right,” Alistair drawled, glancing at her.  She shrugged, which elicited a sigh from Alistair.  “Very helpful.”

“I am helping,” Justice said, sounding almost put out.  “Right now, the Taint is being cleansed from your body. However, there is no gentle way to cleanse something of corruption.  You would feel this, every last moment pure agony, every nerve on fire. Your mortal mind could not endure the strain.”

“Oh, that’s cheerful,” Alistair muttered darkly, but Caitwyn ignored that for the moment.

“Wait, Alistair is going through the ritual first.  Why are both of us here?” Caitwyn asked, arms crossed under her breasts.  Justice looked from her to Alistair and back, an expression of mild surprise in the lines of Anders’s face.

“I had thought you would wish to be together for the duration.  Was I mistaken?” the spirit asked, sounding almost sarcastic, but also concerned that he might actually be mistaken.  Oddly touched, she gave him a smile, the kind she might have given a new recruit who was eager to please.

“No, no you weren’t.  Thank you for thinking of that,” she told him.  He nodded sharply, though she detected relief in the set of his shoulders.  Glancing at Alistair, she raised her eyebrows, not bothering to hide her mix of surprise and amusement, and he shrugged in response, as if to say _he’s your friend, don’t look at me_.  Slightly irked, she tilted her head sharply at the spirit, and Alistair rolled his eyes, but faced Justice and ducked his head politely.

“Thank you, Justice.  It’s,” Alistair trailed off, looked to her briefly, and then his voice held a deep sincerity, “It’s a great kindness.”

“A kindness, yes.  I am… trying,” Justice said, then squared his shoulders.  “I will continue to monitor you both, but will not maintain a visible presence.  Please do not engage in _activities_.  It is not advisable here.”  Then he was gone as if he were never there.

“ _Activities_?” Alistair sputtered.  “What? As if we were unruly youths who can’t keep our hands off of each other?  I’m actually offended.”

“Well,” she drawled, rocking back on her heels and clasping her hands behind her back.

“Oh, don’t you take his side!  Even when we _were_ unruly youths we had duties!  Dealing with a Blight, if you happen to recall.”  His voice rose with indignation, and she couldn’t contain it anymore, dissolving in to a fit of giggles.  With a sigh, he sat next to where she had fallen to the ground, his arms resting on his knees. “You’re hopeless, you are.”

Cuddling up to him, and trying to contain her laughter, she rested her head on his shoulder, hand patting his upper arm.  Her breathing evened out, and she knew part of her reaction was a manic outlet for her fears. Alistair covered her hand with his own, and they waited, the quiet of the Fade a strange thing, but now they had nothing to do save wait.  Wait, and hope they would wake.

 

* * *

 

With a gasp, her eyes shot open, and she saw Alistair opposite her, but that was all she saw before what her body was telling her slammed into her consciousness.  A convulsion of fiery agony wracked her body, and a scream tried to force its way through her clenched teeth while just across from her Alistair curled into a tight ball of pain.  She felt Anders’s hand clamp down on her shoulder and a wave of healing magic, strangely cool in the wake of her pain, washed over them.

Morrigan knelt beside her, gently lifting up her torso, and Caitwyn realized she had gone completely limp.  She couldn’t move even if she wanted to. With one hand, Morrigan gripped her chin and turned her head to look her in one eye and then the other.   She could hear Alistair groaning, and tried to look over at him, but Morrigan’s hand held her fast, and she lacked the strength to break way.

“Be still, be still, he is well,” Morrigan told her, deep voice soothing, and Caitwyn had no choice but to watch as Morrigan examined her.  Then Morrigan let out a sigh of relief, and blinked rapidly, her yellow eyes bright and shiny with unshed tears, lips turning upwards in a smile.  “You are cured, my friend. You are free.”

Caitwyn tried to speak, but nothing came out.  She could barely move her lips, and her throat felt thick.  Morrigan seemed to know what she was trying to say, however, and she shook her head as if to refuse the gratitude.  Then the mage shifted her, letting her see Alistair again, who was being supported and examined by Anders. He looked drained, which meant she probably did, too.  She wanted to touch him, to know for sure that he was alive. Her arm finally responding, though weakly, she managed to reach him. He must have weathered the ritual better than her, because he was able to place his hand on Anders’s chest and push the other man away.  Falling forward, he caught himself on his hands, but pulled himself towards her, taking her from Morrigan, holding her tightly.

Her face pressed to Alistair’s cheek, she tasted the salt of their combined tears, as a decade of fear and hope broke from them like a dam giving way.

As Morrigan had said, they were free.

By grace of their friends and better fortune than they deserved, Caitwyn and Alistair had survived being Grey Wardens.  The corruption that had eaten at their bodies for a decade, that had damned them to an end in the Deep Roads, and haunted their dreams, was gone.  Gone, making their lives finally their own to do with as they would. A future stretched out in front of them, a future they had never thought they could have, but now _theirs_.  Theirs and no one else’s.


	6. These Twists in the Road

It took most of the rest of the day to walk back through the forest.  Alistair had weathered the ritual better, his heartier constitution a bulwark against the stresses the magic had placed on his body.  Even so, he still leaned on a staff that Anders had cut for him, and his pace was slow. Caitwyn’s legs gave out on her with startling frequency at first, to the point where Anders had to carry her piggy-back for a little while.  Light-headed, walking at all had been a struggle for her, to say nothing of doing so through underbrush and along game trails. Alistair protested weakly that  _ he _ should be carrying her, but since he had enough of a struggle supporting himself, he was not taken seriously.  Eventually, Morrigan called a halt, enforcing rest and managed to force Caitwyn to eat a little bit of bread and cheese and drink a few mouthfuls of water, her stomach protesting at the thought of anything more.  The rest and food restored her enough to be able to walk, though largely supported by Anders and Morrigan by turns.

Kieran ran on ahead of the slower adults with all the energy of a ten-year-old boy, his puppy racing at his heels, yipping excitedly.  Though he was mindful to not go out of line of sight or ear shot. Caitwyn felt a brief burst of pride knowing he had learned that from her, from their brief time together years ago.

They cleared the tree line as evening was coming on, the sun sinking below the canopy of the forest behind them.  Caitwyn felt her step strengthen as she caught sight of their home on its little hill, where the paintbrush flowers had started to bloom orange and red and fireflies dipped and bobbed among the grass like wisps.  Squinting, she thought the pen where she had kept the puppies looked intact from this distance. It was then that she noticed the irregular lump moving about, setting something down at the front door, half hidden in the lengthening shadows of the long summer evening.  At their approach the lump moved, and Caitwyn halted, her hand tightening on Morrigan’s arm, drawing the other woman’s attention to the unknown figure.

“Kieran, come here, quickly now!” Morrigan called, her tone brooking no argument.  Kieran returned to his mother’s side, a worried expression on his face and Violet at his heels, the puppy’s hackles up in response to Kieran’s confusion.

“Shit,” Anders cursed.  The man took half a step forward, his staff held low and at the ready.  Alistair gripped his walking stick tighter, though Caitwyn knew he was in no condition to fight.  He had to know it, too, but stood ready all the same.

“Oh, deary me!  I didn’t mean to startle you!” Mayor Neam said, trotting forward, holding a heavy bottomed pie tin between her hands.  The plump, elderly woman smiled at them all, taking in what had to be an unexpected scene with good, easy grace, her wrinkled face splitting in a kindly grin.  “I just heard you had a guest, and I thought I’d bring a little something to welcome them to the area.”

“Thank you, Mayor Neam.” Caitwyn breathed out slowly, letting her heart beat itself down to a normal pace again.  Her mind cycled quickly through how best to handle this, knowing that Lunete Neam saw through people like they were cobwebs, but that the woman also respected the privacy of others provided the secrets they kept weren’t dangerous.  “It’s quite alright. Really. This is Morrigan, and her son Kieran. Morrigan studies elven ruins, among other things. We were out at one today.”

All of it the truth.  Technically.

“Yes, well, must have been an interesting day,” Lunete said, her good cheer never faltering.  In spite of Cait and Alistair both appearing suddenly sickly. Or Morrigan’s general appearance, though the other woman wore sturdy breeches and had put her tunic back on as the evening chill had come on.  Regardless, Lunete continued on as if nothing were amiss. “Andrick, why don’t you take this from me, and I’ll get going, then. Wouldn’t want to keep you. Must be looking forward to a bit of a rest.”

Lunete bustled forward to hand the pie over, and Anders had to shove his staff at Alistair to take the proffered baked good.  She dusted her hands off, and then looked at them all, apparently entirely pleased with herself.

“Good to meet you both, do stop by for tea if you like,” she offered, nothing but her sunny disposition on display.

“Yes, good to meet you, Mayor Neam.  Say hello Kieran,” Morrigan said smoothly, though there was a little wildness around her eyes.  Though that was likely just an effect of encountering the mayor for the first time, Caitwyn thought.

“Hello Mayor Neam,” Kieran said dutifully.

“Ah, what a polite lad.  He does you credit, my dear,” Lunete said.  Then without so much as waiting for a reply, she bustled back off again.  They watched her go, the four adults in half-stunned disbelief, while Kieran, a boy with his priorities thoroughly figured out, sidled closer to Anders to look at the pie.

“It’s apple, Mother,” Kieran said helpfully, and Alistair barked out a laugh. 

“Good lad,” he said, and gestured at the house with his chin.  “We’ve all got our hands full Kieran. Open the door for us, if you would, and we can crack into it.”

“Alright!” Kieran enthused.  He rushed the door and threw it open, his pup at his heels.  The other pups began to bark excitedly then, at seeing their littermate return.

“After you eat a proper meal!” Morrigan called out, shooting Alistair a glare.  Alistair tossed her what he likely hoped to be an irritating grin in return and hobbled forward, Anders close behind with the pie.  Morrigan sighed.

“I don’t know.  If there any day I’m inclined to have dessert first, it’s today,” Caitwyn allowed.  She leaned on Morrigan as they made their way to the house with less alacrity than the boys, their progress slowed further when Caitwyn detoured to open the gate to the pen.  The horde of puppies released and streaming back into the house for their dinners, the women followed suit.

“Oh, very well, but I hope you do not make a habit of this,” Morrigan told her as they crossed the threshold of the house.  Caitwyn disentangled herself from Morrigan’s support, using the furniture to keep her upright. Morrigan lit the fire at a gesture and began to unpack the food she had made and stowed away yesterday.  Though her old friend seemed her normal self, Caitwyn could see tension clustered in the precise movements of her hands and the tightness around her mouth. But Morrigan’s low voiced words, words she likely meant for herself alone reached Cait’s ears regardless, “He gets a stomach ache from too much sugar, you’ll need to know that.”

It was then she knew she had been right, on that day they had gathered herbs.  Morrigan had not come only to help old friends.

 

* * *

“You both seem sufficiently recovered,” Anders said.  A tendril of magic wove through her body as he moved Caitwyn’s head, examining her progress as they sat at the table.  Alistair sat in another chair, his long legs stretched out in front of him, arms crossed over his chest, waiting while Anders give Caitwyn his final assessment.  “Though you’ll never regain the strength and stamina you had as Wardens. Have a care to not push yourselves too hard, please. I do so hate to see my hard work undone.”

“Yes, ser,” Caitwyn said dutifully, a teasing grin about her lips.  It had been a long three days, getting back up to a reasonable strength.  It had been a shock that returning the pie plate to Mayor Neam had proven to be an actual exercise, rather than a simple task.  The old woman had asked no questions, for which Cait was thankful. She didn’t feel up to her usual dissembling patter. Not that the older woman would entirely believe all of it anyway.  

Morrigan had taken Kieran for a walk after breakfast had been cleared away, Violet the puppy in tow as usual now.  She had been doing that a lot of late. Though the house was rather small for four adults, one child, and seven Mabari pups.  It might simply be the woman’s wish to have a measure of quiet. Or, as Caitwyn thought, Morrigan was making sure to spend some time with her son before she left, and left him behind.

Likely, it was both.

“Why do I get the feeling that you’re going to end up doing something ridiculous anyway?  Even in this little village?” Anders asked, leaning back in his chair, blonde eyebrow arched.

“What?  Just because everywhere she goes, she manages to find trouble, you think we can’t have a little peace and quiet?  Oh, ye of little faith,” Alistair drawled. Caitwyn shot him a glare.

“No, the two of you cannot be friends and gang up on me, I won’t allow it,” she declared.  Drawing herself up, she set her shoulders straight as if she were still the Warden-Commander, but the barely suppressed grin likely gave her away.

“That being the case, now might be a good as time as any for me to go,” Anders said briskly.  She knew he had never been good about staying in one place for long, but she had expected him to stay a little longer if only to find a better way to hide himself again from a world that still hounded for his blood.  She could help with that, and she would help if he asked. He had saved her life, and Alistair’s twice over. The blood on his hands couldn’t be washed away so easily, but he wasn’t the monster she had thought. Not anymore.

“Where would you go?  I hear there’s a College of Enchanters now, in addition to the Circles, but well,” Alistair trailed off, spreading his hands meaningfully.

“Yes, I doubt I would be welcome in either place.  But I can’t stay here. We all know that. Besides, I am not over fond of sleeping out in the common area,” Anders said dryly.  They had shifted Kieran in with Morrigan in the second bedroom, which left Anders out by the fire with the dogs. It was not ideal, far from it, but it had been the best workable solution to the size of the house and the current occupants.  Then the mage sighed, scrubbing his hand over his face, a far off look in his eyes.

Then Caitwyn knew.

“You’re going to try to refine the cure ritual, aren’t you?”  Her words were pointed, and as she spoke the shape of his intentions became clear to her.  Anders huffed, but didn’t deny it. “You’d need another mage to help you so you can cure yourself, and why not the person who helped me find the research in the first place, the person who cleansed an Eluvian already, hm?  Damn it, Anders, you’re going back to Kirkwall.”

“It’s where Merrill is, after all, and she might help me.  Yes, I’d like to be free too, but there’s more to it than that.  Maybe I can help other Wardens. I’ll never,” Anders broke off and then took a breath.  “I’ll never be able to make it right, what I did, but I can try to atone, to help those who need it, with knowledge and skills only I possess.”

“If they find you, Anders, they will kill you.”  Alistair’s voice was pitched low, his tone serious as he leaned forward in his chair, arms resting on his knees.  Anders smirked.

“I didn’t know you cared, Alistair,” the mage replied lightly, too lightly.  Alistair fixed Anders level glare, and Caitwyn did the same. Under the combined weight of their gazes, Anders threw his hands up in frustration.

“Look, I mean it.  I tried to hide in a cave, to forget, but I couldn’t.   _ You _ hauled me out of that cave,” Anders said accusingly.  Shooting to his feet, he began to pace as best he could in the cozy room full of furintate.  “You made me remember what it was to help people,  _ really _ help people, and I think you reminded Justice, too.  Whatever I am now, it’s what I am, there’s no changing it, but maybe I,  _ we _ can change ourselves.  If we try. And I have to try.  I won’t hide anymore.” Anders slammed his hands down on the back of the chair he had been sitting in, long fingers white as he tightly gripped the wooden back slat.  

His outburst did not make her recoil, instead her heart reached out to him: a man weighed down by all he had done, nearly crushed under, and yet he was choosing to try again.  It was not to her to stop him from trying.

“Then at least be careful.  I can write to Varric, if you think that might be a good idea,” Caitwyn offered, but Anders shook his head.

“No, better if I go right to Merrill.  You said she’s in the Alienage still? Then I can reach her easily enough.  That city has more secrets than you would believe.” Anders relaxed his grip on the chair and almost made to sit, but instead remained standing.

“When will you leave?” she asked.

“Now, actually.  If I don’t go soon, I might, well nevermind that.  Not a fan of drawn out good-byes anyway,” he said with a self-deprecating grin.  She stood, extending her hand. His gaze shifted to her hand then back to her face, and he seemed to not be sure if he believed what he was seeing.  Regardless, he clasped her forearm, and she did the same, then surprising them both, she drew him into a quick, brief hug, her arms squeezing him about his shoulders.

“Thank you, Anders.  Thank you,” she said softly, her whole heart in those words, and the tension fled from him.  He gingerly returned her hug, patting her awkwardly on the back before she stepped away. Alistair stood as well, and the men clasped hands, Alistair placing his other hand over Anders’s.

“Be well, Anders, and stay safe,” Alistair said sincerely.  Anders shook his head, as if trying to shake off the notion that people could care for him still, or perhaps it was more akin to caring for him again.  Regardless, he looked as if he had found something that he was not sure existed in the first place. Silently, Anders gathered up his tiny bundle of possessions, extra clothes and the like that she had supplied for him while he had been here with them.  He was almost out the door when Cait thought of something.

“Wait!” she called out, the entreaty halting the mage’s progress.  She dashed into her and Alistair’s bedroom, and pried up the floorboard to get at her lockbox.  She opened it and took out a handful of coins. Quickly, she returned to Anders, pressing the money on him.

“No, I can’t,” he protested, trying to hand back the coins.

“We traded away the horse and cart, so you’ll need some kind of transport.  Alistair and I can do this much for you,” she said, pushing his hand away.

“But I… no, I…” Anders stammered, as though he could handle everything the world threw at him with a smirk save honest gratitude. 

“Take the damn coins, Anders.  You did more than we could ever repay, for me in particular, and like Cait said, we can do this much for you,” Alistair said, voice gentle.  Caitwyn knew the memory Anders healing him and helping him back from the brink of madness not as far away as either of them wanted it to be, but because of Anders it was firmly behind them.  Anders looked down at his hand in disbelief at what was a paltry thank you for what he had done for them, and in that moment Caitwyn finally forgive the man who had betrayed her trust.

“Write, if you can, and know you’re always welcome here,” Caitwyn told him.  His head jerked up, surprise written in the lines of his face, but then he ducked his head, taking another step out the door. 

“I’ll remember that,” he promised, then shrugged.  “Might not take you up on it, but I’ll remember the offer regardless.  And treasure it. Good-bye, and live well.” Anders turned, taking the final two steps lightly, and then set off south, to go through the village and back to Gwaren, where he would likely catch a ship for Kirkwall.  Caitwyn stood in the doorway, leaning back into Alistair as they watched him go out in the bright warmth of the summer afternoon.

“Do you think he’ll be alright?” Alistair asked, a note of worry in his voice. 

“Only time will tell, but I think… I think he might be,” she answered, a flutter of hope for her friend in her chest.

 

* * *

Morrigan and Kieran had been out of the house all day, returning in time for supper.  Caitwyn was grateful Morrigan had thought ahead and helped preserve food before they had undertaken the cure, saving Cait from having to hunt while she still recovered from the ritual.  She had hauled a few things out of the root cellar to pad out what Morrigan had prepared, a ham along with some jarred pickles and winter apples. The bread had only been baked yesterday, so it was still good.  Alistair set places at the table, while Caitwyn studied Morrigan for any further sign of what her old friend had been contemplating these past few days.

Kieran ate heartily, sneaking some ham to Violet and the other puppies as well, though his sneaking left a lot to be desired.  He seemed to show no sign of knowing what was going on, but it would be in keeping with Morrigan’s behavior to keep her plans close to her chest, even from her son.  Perhaps especially so. Alistair and Caitwyn ate more slowly, their appetites only just starting to come back properly. It had been a struggle that first day to want to eat anything, and they both had to be careful.  They were both used to eating whatever they wanted, the abilities the Warden’s controlled corruption gave them requiring a lot more food to fuel them. Now they both would have to relearn how to eat like reasonable people.

“I’m all done, Mother, may I be excused?” Kieran asked, displaying his empty plate and eager to return to his book.  It was one of Varric’s books, much to Morrigan’s despair, but she did not curb his interest in adventure tales.

“You may, but clean your plate first,” Morrigan said, again her voice gentle when she spoke to her son.  Kieran popped up from his seat and gathered his dishes, taking it to the small series of water buckets they kept in the house for washing up.  The puppies followed him, eager for any scraps he might miss, though Violet made sure the others knew Kieran was  _ her _ person, shouldering past her larger brothers and sisters to keep next to his side.

“I think they’re all going to abandon you for him, Cait, if you’re not careful,” Alistair teased her as he watched the procession.  He held his mug of watered-down beer in loosely by his fingertips, both of them under strict orders about alcohol. Even though Anders wasn’t here to enforce the decree, Caitwyn was, and she made sure Alistair stuck to his allotment and no more.  She sufficed on tea anyway, never having a head for more than one or two mugs of ale.

“It’s just because he lets them lick his face, that’s all.  They know who the real boss is,” she said primly, while using a heel of bread to sop up the last of the gravy on her plate.

“I hope so, because I don’t think we’ll be thanked if he leaves here with all seven,” he said, smirking at Morrigan.  Then he caught the woman’s expression, a touch of apprehension in her eyes, and a bitter determination in the set of her mouth.  “If you’re that upset about him having a puppy, Morrigan, I know for a fact you were fond of Maethor, and—”

“It is not that, Alistair,” Morrigan interrupted him sharply, and Caitwyn knew her friend had made her decision.  Then she sighed, closing her yellow eyes, looking inward for a moment. Alistair shot Caitwyn a confused glance, but Caitwyn made a low negating gesture.  Morrigan let out a breath and opened her eyes, regarding them both. “There is a favor, I must ask of you both. It is not something I ask lightly, though I think perhaps t’would be better if we discussed this elsewhere.”

“Right,” Alistair drawled, shifting his eyes from Caitwyn then to Morrigan and back.  Then he stood, taking up the plates. “Well, how about I clean these up first, and then join you?”

“Thank you, love.”  Standing on tip-toe while he leaned over, Caitwyn kissed his cheek before gathering up her cloak.  Morrigan took her own cloak from the pegs by the door, and turned to her son.

“Kieran, stay inside while we’re gone, please.”  Her voice was deep and gentle, and Caitwyn ached for Morrigan in that moment, seeing how her friend lingered, as if impressing this image into her memory.  As if it were a treasure to be taken out later, after she had gone.

“Yes, Mother,” he said, glancing up at her.  He sounded only a little offended that she thought he would go wandering in the dark evening.  Then he returned his attention to his book, Violet looking down at the page too, tilting her head as if trying to figure out what fascinated her person so much.  Morrigan spared her son a second glance but let the matter drop. Caitwyn opened the door, and Morrigan followed her through the tall grass down to the shore, staying just out of reach of the lapping tide.  The wind and water were calm tonight, and the light of the full moon and stars were not impeded by clouds.

“I am happy for you, Caitwyn,” Morrigan said softly, eyes staring out over the star-speckled sea.  “I had not thought, all those years ago, to have a friend such as you, to know someone for whom I could be so happy.  Or, to have someone I trust as I trust you, though I am not sure I have always repaid you well in kind.”

“You saved my life, twice over, Morrigan, and Alistair’s.  I wouldn’t be standing here today if not for you, and any happiness I have, I can lay a portion of it at your feet,” Caitwyn told her, voice just as soft.  Impulsively, she wrapped an arm around the other woman’s waist. Morrigan was not one for touching, and years ago neither had Cait. Much had changed, and she was not about to let one of her dearest friends, a sister to her heart, walk away thinking she was unloved or unappreciated.

Morrigan, for a wonder, leaned in to the embrace, her own arm wrapping around Cait’s shoulders, cheek laid on the top of her head.

“While I appreciate the sentiment, Alistair is your own fault, so do not blame me for that,” Morrigan said, her deep voice laced with amusement rather than the disdain of ten years ago.  Then Caitwyn heard the scrape of boots on rock, which meant Alistair had joined them. And had likely heard what Morrigan said.

“Yes, yes, I get it, you think she could do better,” Alistair drawled, his voice carrying in the summer night.  Both women turned to watch his approach across the beach. “Well, she’s stuck with me now, so you’ll just have to get over it.”

“It seems I must.”  Morrigan smirked, but it lacked the edge it used to, and Caitwyn gave the other woman one last squeeze before she let go to take Alistair’s hand in her own.  Walking the beach, they were all silent for a moment, and Morrigan clenched her jaw as if steeling herself.

“I am sure Caitwyn informed you, Alistair, that I took on knowledge found in an ancient elven artefact, called the Well of Sorrows, and what it entails, yes?” Morrigan asked.  She regarded Caitwyn and Alistair as if she were a hawk, with her bright, intent eyes and sharp nose.

“She also said that there’s nothing we can do to help you,” he answered, looking at Cait for confirmation.  Caitwyn nodded, a frown creasing her brow. She worried for Morrigan, for what her friend had gotten herself into by leaping without looking too closely at where she would land.  But that was done now, done and all they could do was deal with what was.

“And since we cannot help you, I assume you have another favor in mind,” Caitwyn said quietly, gently.  It was impossible for Caitwyn to miss how this tore at Morrigan’s heart to ask such a thing.

“Yes, t’is correct, your assumption,” Morrigan replied, voice tight.  Then she stopped walking, and turned back to the sea, unable to look at them as she spoke.  “I cannot keep Kieran with me. I have no way of knowing what Mythal will require of me, nor how long it will take to fulfill her will.  Neither do I know what other changes the Well might have wrought upon me. I cannot leave Kieran in Val Royeaux, to be raised by tutors and the Court of Orlais.  Though this is not the place I would choose for him, there is no one else, indeed, there are no others I would trust with his safety save you two. Would you care for him?  Raise him, if I cannot?”

Caitwyn’s heart broke for her friend at that, at hearing her finally ask what she had come here to ask.  As much as she wanted to rush to say yes, she knew she could not. Instead, she shifted her gaze to Alistair, who stared at Morrigan in shock for a moment, but then his eyes fell upon Caitwyn.  She tilted her head, a silent question, and his mouth tightened, his eyes troubled.

Alistair knew as she did that they could not tell Kieran who his father was.   If Morrigan had not already, then it was not their place to do so, and indeed it would be easier in many ways to continue to keep the secret from him.  A ten-year-old boy should not know of such dark things, nor have any reason to doubt that though he was once an instrument of survival, he was loved in his own right now.  But how much would it hurt Alistair to do this, she wondered. Caitwyn did not know, and she could not do this without his agreement.

“You said you trust the both of us,” Alistair said to Morrigan, eyebrow raised inquiringly.  Morrigan glared at him as if she wanted to slap him for the question hidden in his statement, and her yellow eyes were sharp as knives in the night.

“Caitwyn informed me you protected the secret of Kieran’s existence at great cost to yourself, so yes, Alistair, I trust you to see he comes to no harm,” Morrigan bit out, her tolerance for the conversation wearing thin.  Aware he had pushed Morrigan too far, he held up his hands in mock surrender to forestall further argument.

“Cait?”  Alistair spoke her name as a question, but she had known what her answer would be days ago.  Now, she knew what Alistair’s was. For all that it might pain him, she should have known the man would never turn away a child in need of a home, no matter what it cost him.

“We will, Morrigan, we’ll look after him, I promise.  We’ll give him everything we can,” Caitwyn said. She reached for Morrigan with her free hand, and Morrigan clasped her hand like a lifeline.

“Then you have my thanks, both of you,” Morrigan said, then disentangled her hand from Caitwyn’s.  “And I must leave. Now t’would be best, I believe.”

“Oh, like hell, Morrigan, get your ass back in the house and say good-bye to your son,” Caitwyn ordered.  She grabbed Morrigan by the wrist, having half expected the other woman to pull another quick exit. It was, after all, her style.  The mage tried to pull away, but even still recovering from the ritual, Caitwyn was stronger than she looked.

“I cannot,” Morrigan protested, eyes wide, breathing shallow.  “Now that I am to it, I find I cannot. Please, my friend, my sister, do not make me do this.  I can leave him behind in your care, but to say good-bye, it would break my heart.”

“And what of his heart, Morrigan?” Caitwyn asked, her steady green eyes holding Morrigan’s startled yellow.   “He deserves to know, to hear it from you, not us.”

“If my advice counts for anything, Morrigan, don’t give him cause to be angry with you.  And good-bye won’t be forever,” Alistair said, speaking with the knowledge of a man who remembered being sent away as a boy, of not knowing why, only that he felt unwanted.

“Damn you both,” Morrigan spat, but she stopped struggling in Caitwyn’s grip.  Caitwyn held on a moment longer, until she was sure Morrigan would not transform into some creature to make her escape.  Then she let go.

Together, they walked back to the house.  There they found Kieran largely as they had left him, sitting against the foot of the low couch with Varric’s book on his lap, Violet snuggled up next to him.  Kieran greeted their return absently, focused as he was on his book, and Morrigan briefly stepped into the room she had shared with her son to grab her things. A pack, all ready to go, and one she had been willing to abandon in her fear of having to go through with this wrenching parting.  Morrigan visibly steeled herself, however, set the pack down beside the couch as she approached her son. 

Caitwyn and Alistair made to go to their room, but Morrigan gave a single shake of her head.  There was a heaviness to Morrigan’s bearing, and Caitwyn thought that maybe her friend wanted her on hand, just in case she faltered.  Lingering by the table, they gave Morrigan and her son some space but were close enough to lend aid if necessary. Though what kind of aid they could offer, Cait was not certain.  The firelight lit the features of mother and son, and Caitwyn could see how although his hair was black, and his skin was pale like his mother’s, the boy had his father’s eyes and nose.

Maker help them when he started growing in earnest.

“Kieran, we need to have a talk, you and I,” Morrigan began, her voice steady and low, and Kieran looked up from his book, closing it. 

“You’re leaving, aren’t you?” Kieran asked, gripping the book tightly in his small hands.  Morrigan blinked, startled at her son’s question and insight. Then her face softened into a proud smile, proud that her son knew what had been coming and held his composure.

“Yes, yes I am.  I wish I did not have to leave you, my son, but this is a safe place, and you will be well looked after here,” Morrigan said, stroking his hair gently.  “I know you might miss Val Royeaux—”

“I don’t care about Val Royeaux,” he cried.  He threw his thin arms around her neck, and buried his face against her neck.  The sudden movement woke up the puppies, and they started to fuss in confusion.  Caitwyn risked a quick, high pitched whistle to quiet them while Morrigan held her son tightly.

“I know, I know, my brave, clever boy, I know.”  Morrigan’s voice was thready, weak in a way Caitwyn had never heard before, and she pressed a kiss to the top of Kieran’s head and held him for several moments longer.  Caitwyn turned her face away and caught Alistair’s eye. He rested his brow to hers, and they kept their peace, letting Morrigan dry Kieran’s eyes and quiet his sniffles with as much privacy as they could grant.

“I love you, Kieran, never doubt that,” Morrigan her son.  Her voice was almost too soft for even Cait to hear, but she heard it all the same.

“I love you, too, Mother,” Kieran said, his voice stronger, trying to be the brave boy his mother asked him to be.  With gritted teeth, and what Caitwyn knew was a wrenching heart, Morrigan removed her son’s arms from around her neck, kissed the backs of hands, then his forehead one last time.  Quickly, she stood, grabbing her pack, and all but fled the little house where she had decided to leave her son behind.

Kieran stood, racing to the door but stopped in the doorway.  Caitwyn and Alistair drew closer then, and stood ready while Kieran watched with avid eyes as his mother transformed into a black-furred wolf.  She took one loping stride, then another, but before she gained the tree line she paused and turned her head back toward the house, yellow eyes glowing in the moonlight.  The wolf that was Morrigan threw her head back and howled, then she was gone, disappearing into the trees. Kieran stood in the doorway visibly shaking, and knowing there was only one thing to do, Caitwyn stepped lightly to the boy’s side and put an arm around his slim shoulders and held him close.

“Hey now, hey now,” she muttered soothingly.  Old habits from when she had cared for children in the Alienage for a bit of spare coin came to the fore, and she smoothed back his hair. The puppies began to whimper, sensing the rapidly changing moods but not knowing what to do about it.  Alistair calmed them easily with his steady presence and a pat on each of their backs while Caitwyn let Kieran back to the couch. They sat down on the patched, plush cushions, an old thing they had bartered for, but was a welcome comfort in the house.

“I’m sorry,” Kieran said, rubbing the back of his hand across his nose, trying to stop his own sniffles.  “I knew… I knew she was thinking about going, but I didn’t know if she would, not for sure. I thought I’d be alright… but then.  Then she left, and I know she didn’t want to leave me, but… but.” His small chest heaving, Kieran clamped his mouth shut and tried to hold his head high, tried to keep more tears off his face.  Caitwyn rubbed his back soothingly, while Alistair crossed the room and closed the door. The sound of the metal latch shifting home was a final note in Morrigan’s departure, and Kieran flitched at the noise.

“She only wants what’s best for you, and if she could keep you with her, she would,” Caitwyn told him gently.  His hazel eyes glistened with more tears in the light of the fire, and he drew a shuddering breath.

“I know, but… I’m ten!  I shouldn’t be crying like a baby about it,” he said angrily, dashing at the tears that refused to stop running down his cheeks.  Alistair knelt down in front of Kieran, making sure the boy didn’t have to look up at him, a wry smile on his face.

“Trust me, Kieran, you’re never too old to cry.  I’m thirty-two, and I cry all the time,” Alistair said, eyes glinting with self-mockery.  The shock of the idea made Kieran pull a face.

“You cry?  But you’re a Warden!  Or, well, you used to be, and you fought in the Blight.  You’re a hero. Heroes don’t cry,” Kieran insisted. He pointed at Varric’s book as though it were solid evidence for his claim.

“I cried three days ago, I’ll have you know!”  Alistair’s voice rose with playful indignation, which coaxed the barest hint of a smile out of the boy.  “Very emotional day, three days ago, bawled like a baby. Trust me, Kieran, you’re never too old to cry.” 

“I guess,” Kieran said.  His disbelief waning, he glanced from Alistair to Caitwyn, searching for confirmation.  Her green eyes flickered to Alistair for a moment, then returned to the boy who sat tucked under her arm, a smirk twisting her lips.

“He really does cry a lot,” Caitwyn assured him.  Kieran let out a small huff of laughter before his demeanor turned shy as he remembered he was alone with people he did not know all that well.  Alone and with no prospect of his mother coming back to retrieve him like last time.

“Oh, thank you very much, my love,” Alistair muttered, casting her a wry look.

“The point is, Kieran, it’s alright to cry, and if you ever feel sad or angry or anything, you can tell us.  We can’t replace your mother, and we aren’t about to try. But we do care about you, and we’re going to do our best.  If we get something wrong, you let us know, alright?” There was a flutter of apprehension in Caitwyn’s stomach as the reality of suddenly being responsible for a child settled over her.  She had helped look after children in the Alienage years ago, and had taken care of Kieran when he had been younger, but only for a brief time. Now there was a boy, who had just been left in their care by his mother, and though he knew the reasons, it was not an easy thing to be left behind.

“I’ll be good, I promise,” Kieran said earnestly.  He reached to pick up Violet, the small pup wriggling happily in his lap and licking his chin.  Likely as much for the salt as to comfort her person. “I won’t be any trouble.”

“Oh, I think a little trouble is allowed,” Caitwyn told him.  Kieran looked at her like she had grown a second head. “You’re ten, you’re  _ supposed _ to get in trouble.  I know I did.”

“You were trained to be a thief by your own mother, I’m not sure if that’s the same thing,” Alistair countered, lowering himself fully to the floor and sitting cross-legged.  Delighted surprise suffused Kieran’s face at that little detail, and though Caitwyn was not one to tell stories she knew it would settle the boy to hear a tale of some sort. It would help take his mind off his own troubles, perhaps long enough to get to sleep.

“Really? You were a thief?  That must have been before the Wardens, right?”  Kieran’s questions were quick, and Caitwyn nodded.

“Yes, it was.  Actually, my mother and I robbed Arl Eamon’s estate once.  Funny story about that,” she began, and launched in to the tale of how she’d lifted several interesting items from the arl, only to end up his guest years later.  With helpful additions from Alistair on the second portion of the story, they spun out the tale long enough for Kieran to calm down. His breathing returned to normal, and eventually his tiredness won out over wanting to hear the end of the story.  He slumped against her, Violet curled up and asleep in his lap, and he was heavy enough that she couldn’t move him without waking him up.

“Alistair,” she whispered, tilting her head at Kieran.  Alistair nodded, acknowledging that the boy was asleep. Caitwyn took Violet off Kieran’s lap and held the puppy while Alistair gently picked Kieran up.  For a moment, holding his son in his arms, he closed his eyes, a flicker of pain and regret on his face. Then he hefted Kieran to hold him more securely and moved around the couch to the small second bedroom.  The pallet Kieran had used was still on the floor, but Alistair laid the boy down on the narrow bed, tucking the covers up around him. The movement made Kieran stir, and Alistair smoothed the boy’s hair away from his face. 

“Get some rest, Kieran, it was a big day,” he said quietly.  Caitwyn set Violet down next to Kieran, his arms going around the pup automatically, cuddling her close.

“G’night, Alistair.  G’night, Caitwyn,” Kieran mumbled.  He snuggled deeper under the deep blue quilt, his eyes fluttering closed, dark lashes curling against pale cheeks, and Caitwyn’s heart lurched to witness such peaceful sleep.  She twined her fingers with Alistair’s and led him out of the room, closing the door softly behind them. Hand in hand, they resettled on the couch, avoiding the sleeping puppy pile that congealed near the fire in the hearth.  Caitwyn tucked her legs up underneath her, watching Alistair closely. He sat next to her, one leg crooked up on the red cushions, and he idly picked at the patchwork quilt draped over the back of the couch.

“He’s still so small,” Alistair said in a hushed voice.  He ran a hand through his hair, his face a study in obscure hurt and wonder.  Then he sighed, scratching at the stubble on his chin. “So, it seems we have, what, a ward?  I can’t say I ever thought this would happen.”

“Me either, though I did suspect Morrigan had this in mind from the moment she came here.  But I wasn’t certain until she asked us to talk out on the beach tonight.” Caitwyn admitted, matching his low volume.  “Well, we wondered what we would do out here. Raising Kieran can be part of it. It means we have a good deal to do. He’ll need clothes, and books, so he can continue his studies.  And out here he should probably learn a few hunting skills. I think Morrigan would string us both up if he became a fisherman, though.” Her assessment elicited a grunt of agreement from Alistair. 

“Might have to learn to fight out here, too,” Alistair mused, eyes narrowing, looking at his own hands, with scars old and new.  Scars from battles won and lost, scars from the torture had survived at Weisshaupt. He turned his head, expression thoughtful. “I take it the plan is to introduce him around the village and then keep him busy, yes?”

“Got it one.”  

“And what happens if he figures it out, Cait?  What do we do then?” 

His voice nearly broke on the question, and Caitwyn could see the disquiet in the furrow of his brow and the unease twisting his mouth.  It wasn’t Kieran staying with them that gave him pause, she knew, but what it would be to have to explain so much darkness to a boy, to his son, and underneath that the fear of watching history repeat itself.  The fear of being like Maric.

Caitwyn wanted to backhand Maric all over again for the lingering hurt he’d inflicted on Alistair, but rather than answer right away she pressed her small body against his, nuzzling his neck and letting him take comfort in her love of him.  A love that they declared often enough, but sometimes it was better to show it, she knew.

“We’ll deal with it.  We’ve managed everything else so far.”  She put all the confidence she could into her voice, and he hummed low in his chest, holding her close.

“I suppose we have,” he agreed as they leaned against each other on a second-hand couch, warmed by the light of the fire and by each other.


	7. A New Kind of Life

Kieran woke up slowly, not wanting to leave the warm nest of blankets.  Violet whimpered, nudging her cold, wet nose against his neck, jolting him all the way awake.  He knew she probably had to go outside. Scrunching his face in anticipation of the chill, he threw off the covers in a single sweep of his arm and hopped out of bed, Violet jumping down behind him.  Opening the bedroom door, he saw Caitwyn at the hearth, making breakfast, and she turned to him with a smile.

“Good morning, Kieran,” she said in her pleasantly lilting voice.  Her dark skin was warmed and flushed by the fire, and her long hair was tied back in a braid.

“Morning, Caitwyn, I have to let Violet out,” he said by way of explanation as he rushed for the door to the house, traipsing from rug to rug to keep his bare feet off the wooden floor.  Violet yipped excitedly as he opened the door to let her join her brothers and sisters already playing in the tall grass out in front of the house. Kieran paused on the top step long enough to get in to his socks and boots, kept in a little rack just inside the door, and then he joined his dog in the grass, still wet with dew in the clear, early morning sunlight.

He let Violet do her business, and then started working on her training.  Even though he was staying here, Violet was still his puppy since no one had told him otherwise, so he was responsible for her.  And that meant he had to do his best to train her and feed her and look after her, and he thought he should ask for a book on Mabari training.  For now, he used the commands Caitwyn had taught him, the ones Maethor had responded to.

“Sit,” he said, closing his hand into a fist.  Violet sat, looking up at him with canine eagerness.  Though she still sat funny, resting on one hip instead of sitting properly.  He was about to try another command when one of her brothers, Elm, tackled her, and then it became a puppy brawl.  He was hip deep in puppies, trying to break them apart when Caitwyn called out his name. He glanced back to see her at the top step in a simple dress, like she was any other village wife. 

“Go get Alistair please, and let him know breakfast is ready.  He’s behind the house chopping wood. Or, that’s what he said he was going to do.”  She waved him on with a kitchen towel, and he left the playing puppies behind.

Rounding the corner of the house to the north side of the hill, he saw Alistair there, shirtsleeves rolled up and axe in hand, setting another log down to be split for firewood.  It was the last month of summer, and the stockpile of firewood in the lee of the house was practically non-existent. Though Kieran didn’t know much about living outside of cities, he could figure out that much was important.  The log balanced, Alistair wound up and brought the axe down, the log splitting in two at the blow. Thinking it was relatively safe now, Kieran rushed forward and picked up the half that was closest to him.

“Ah, thank you, Kieran.”  Alistair appeared a little surprised for Kieran to be there, but he recovered quickly and gave him a grin.  “You sleep well?”

“I think so, yes,” Kieran answered.  He slept better than he could remember since the dreams had gone, but he had no way to tell if the sleep he got now was better or worse day to day.  It was all better than it had been before talking to Grandmother.

“Good.  That’s good,” Alistair said.  There was something awkward in the set of the former Warden’s shoulders, and Kieran wondered if he was already regretting letting him stay here.  Then Alistair bent down to pick up the other half of the log and handed it to Kieran. He had to cradle the wood in his arms to hold on to both halves, and Alistair picked up another unsplit log from the pile.

“Alistair,” Kieran said, which elicited a questioning hum from the man.  “Caitwyn sent me to tell you that breakfast is ready.”

“Kieran,” Alistair said, his tone almost lecturing as he tossed the log away and drove the axe into the splitting stump.  For a second, Kieran thought he had done something wrong, but Alistair’s sudden grin told him that the man was playing at being serious.  “Next time, lead with breakfast. But we should probably put what we’ve got in the stockpile first. Lend me a hand, would you?”

“Okay,” Kieran replied, trying to remember that.   Alistair gave him one more split log to carry, while the former Warden took the larger balance of the wood, and they piled it neatly against the house and pulled a tarp over it to keep mice and rats and birds out.  The door to the house had been left open, and Kieran could smell the cooked bacon even before he got to the stairs. Grinning, Kieran quickly removed his boots and set them on the rack, and eagerly pulled up a chair at the table, Alistair not far behind.

“Cait, have I told you lately that I love you?” Alistair asked.  He gazed up at her adoringly as she set down the pan with the bacon in it before taking her own seat.

“About an hour ago, but I know this one is really about the bacon, not me,” she replied, taking a couple of pieces for herself.

“I can love you  _ and _ bacon, that’s perfectly acceptable.  I checked.” Alistair put on an air of authority, though he gestured for Kieran to serve himself first.  Kieran did so, barely stopping himself from taking half the bacon, and instead ladling some of the porridge into a bowl.  Though he did spoon out a generous amount of honey. Then he noticed Caitwyn watching him with a bemused smile, and he stopped adding honey.

Mother must have told her not to let him have too much sugar, and he added more porridge to balance it out.  She gave him a little nod before turning back to her own breakfast.

“Oh, in what book is it written?” she asked Alistair archly between bites of breakfast.  “Or are those the rules you made up just now?” Alistair’s face was the picture of mock wounded pride, even as Caitwyn grinned like a cat.  Kieran choked back a laugh, and he thought it went unnoticed with Caitwyn and Alistair more intent on getting the better of the other than him.

“It really hurts that you assume that I would make up such things,” Alistair protested.  Kieran finally laughed aloud, which made both of them turn to him. Alistair raised a blonde eyebrow and pointed imperiously with his spoon.  “And what do you think is so funny? This is serious, you know.”

The assertion of the seriousness of the matter only made Kieran laugh again.

“Your fake argument is funny, that’s what,” Kieran answered, kicking his legs underneath the table, feeling like he wanted to run and play and  _ move _ .  He missed Mother; it didn’t feel right her not being here, but he had never been in a place like this before, a little village on the edge of the wilderness, where adventure seemed like a real possibility.  It was like he was excited in spite of himself.

“I think he’s on to us.”  Caitwyn’s green eyes were bright, teasing, her sharp features crinkling with amusement.

“We’ll have to do better next time,” Alistair agreed, and then took another piece of bacon. 

“Clearly.  Though for now, I was thinking we should talk about what we’re going to do today,” Caitwyn mused.  She took up up her warm mug of tea, watching Kieran over the rim of it. “I was thinking we could go into the village proper, make the rounds, introduce you, and see about getting you a few more things.  Yena might have some winter clothing in stock she could alter, or she can order it for us from Gwaren. What do you say, Kieran?”

And just like that, Kieran’s excitement vanished.  It was one thing, here at the house, with Caitwyn and Alistair and Violet and the other puppies, but something about going around in the village made his chest feel tight.  He dropped his eyes to his plate and fiddled with his spoon. He knew Caitwyn hadn’t meant to make him feel like this. She had sounded so certain about the whole prospect, but he had a particular worry, now that he thought about it.

“What are you going to tell the villagers about me?” he asked quietly, not sure why it was hard to ask that question, but it was.  He wished Violet was at his side, because then she’d lick his face or beg for scraps, and she’d be  _ here _ , but she was still outside playing with her brothers and sisters.  The puppy growls and yips drifted in along with the crash of the ocean, all set against the crack of the freshly stoked up fire.

“What would you want them to know?” Caitwyn asked gently.  She was asking him for his opinion, paying attention to him, like it mattered what he wanted other people know about him.  Unsure how to answer that, he shrugged. She set down her mug and regarded him with thoughtful eyes.

“Maybe not today, hm?” Alistair offered, switching from joking to careful in moments.  “One of us can go in and place an order with Yena, and hey, maybe you can help me with firewood a little more?”

“No, no I want to go today,” Kieran said, brows drawing down in a determined frown.  “I just, I don’t know what to say is all. Not many people talked to me at Val Royeaux, and when they did it was just to be polite.”

“Well, how about if we say that your mother’s research took her somewhere too dangerous for you to go with her, and that she asked us to care for you?” Caitwyn suggested.  Kieran turned the phrasing over his mind, and he thought it sounded alright. It was true, in a way, which was good, and it fit with what Caitwyn had told the little mayor lady, Mayor Neam, he recalled. 

“That, that sounds alright.”  He spoke slowly as he thought about Caitwyn’s suggestion.  It felt strange to think that way, but he supposed her plan was better than being stuck for an answer when someone asked.

“It’s settled then.  To the village after breakfast, and then maybe you can help me train the other puppies later?  I saw you working with Violet, and I think I could use your help,” Caitwyn offered, and Kieran brightened at her idea.  It even put a little swing back in his legs as they dangled off the end of the chair. 

“Of course I’ll help!” he declared, and tucked back into breakfast.  There was a lot to get used to, but Kieran was determined to make sure his mother’s friends didn’t regret taking him in.  Not even once.

 

* * *

“Hello!  Who do we have here?” Yena asked as she came around the low counter.  The dwarf’s round face was cheery, and her blue eyes bright. It was a small shop, but the shelves were filled with every manner of thing, from dried goods to cloth to cast iron pans, some of it used and offered in trade for something else.  Light filtered in through the windows, and a few lamps hung over head, giving the whole place a cozy, warm feeling. Kieran shoulders shifted with uncertainty at the scrutiny, and Caitwyn put a reassuring hand on his back.

“Hi there, Yena.  This is Kieran. He’s the son of an old friend, and he’s staying with us for a while,” Caitwyn answered, her manner easy and open.  It was still a habit to control her expressions, to be what people wanted her to be. But these days, in this little sleepy village, there was less of a disconnect between what she displayed and what she truly felt, and what she truly felt was happy, content, and free.  There was no reason to show a false face, even if some truths were still held close. “And he’s going to need some new clothes, something a bit better suited for around here, and we’ll need to order some winter gear from Gwaren.”

“I think we can manage that,” Yena said cheerily, bright gaze shifting from the boy to Caitwyn.  “Barter or coin?”

“Barter.  I was going to go hunting soon, and I can get you a deer if you like,” Caitwyn said, making the first offer. 

“Throw in some pheasant and you have yourself a deal.  If you keep the feathers in good nick, I’ll throw in something extra,” Yena countered.  Caitwyn nodded in acceptance and they shook on it.

“Alright then,” Yena said, clapping her hands together and addressing Kieran.  “Come around back young man, and we’ll get you measured up.” Kieran’s wide, wary eyes turned back to Cait and Alistair, but they both nodded their approval.  With an encouraged if trepid smile, Kieran followed Yena to have his measurements taken, and this was just their first stop.

 

* * *

“It’s good to meet you Kieran, I’m Sister Tannis,” the Chantry Sister said kindly.  A young woman, Tannis was supremely devout and only one of two Sisters in Devon-by-Sea under Mother Ostryd, but she was also a teacher, leading lessons in basic reading, writing, and figures for the village children.  Caitwyn held back this time, and she hoped Kieran would start to find his feet. Though Alistair looked ready to jump in at a moment’s notice, Caitwyn knew the value of letting children figure things out for themselves.  It was how she had been raised, after all.

Though she didn’t think she’d exactly duplicate her mother’s method of child rearing.  Adaia might have raised her to look after herself, but it had come at a cost. A cost she had no intention of letting Kieran pay.  The boy would not grow up constantly on guard, not if she had anything to do about it.

“Good to meet you, Sister,” Kieran said, almost shifting his gaze back to them, but then he resolutely went on.  “Caitwyn and Alistair told me that you teach reading and writing, but that you know a lot more. I was hoping it would be alright if I could look at your books, sometimes?  Do you have any natural histories, maybe with pictures? I like those, and there aren’t any of those books at the house.”

Caitwyn smiled as Kieran’s enthusiasm for his studies saw him through his momentary bout with uncertainty about what to do.  Tannis broke into a delight grin at Kieran’s enthusiasm for study and learning. The Sister promptly took Kieran on a little tour of the area that had been made into a classroom, showing Kieran the small collection of natural history books in the Chantry’s possession.  They left with a promise of more books to be ordered if a donation found its way into Chantry coffers.

Resisting the urge to roll her eyes, Caitwyn extracted them from the sturdy building before Alistair’s comments about cutting out the middle-man and just ordering the books themselves became audible to human ears.  Nudging Alistair, she shot him a quelling glance, and he huffed instead of continuing with his complaints. It was nearing mid-day, and though they could go back home for food, she had a better idea.

 

* * *

“Paedrick!” Alistair called out, waving his arm above the crowd of fishermen in the tavern. It was a cozy sort of common room, with a low ceiling and large hearth set into the sea-facing wall.  On the opposite side of the room, a staircase led up to the second floor, where the five guestrooms waited for the few peddlers, traders, and occasional hunters that came through the village. Tables and chairs were haphazardly arranged, evidence that people changed things about to suit themselves.  It wasn’t crowded at noon, the men out working, but a few old timers lingered here, whiling away their time over mugs of ale. Caitwyn kept a steady hand on Kieran’s shoulder as he took in the place, and she wondered if Morrigan had ever let him see the inside of a tavern before. Possibly not, even though according to Alistair there had been one in Skyhold.

“Alistair!  Caitwyn! Glad you came by, we got a new cask of the brown ale from Lorent, and we’re just about to crack it open,” Paedrick said in his booming voice.  The proprietor of the The Mermaid’s Rest, which Caitwyn had rather thought a grand name for a small village tavern that only boasted five guest beds, Paedrick was a large man, tall and well-built, with a silver-shot full red beard and his mass of similarly colored hair tied behind his head.

“Could do with some food first,” Alistair countered with an easy smile, clasping Paedrick by the forearm.  Caitwyn levered herself up on to a barstool, and Kieran did the same. The long oaken bar was clean and thankfully not sticky.  Unlike some places she’d been in. “And we wanted to bring Kieran around, let him get a sense of the place. Son of an old friend, staying with us a while, Kieran this is Paedrick.  You get in trouble, you find him if you can’t find us. He’ll at least feed you, unlike the rest of this lot.”

The last comment earned a round of good natured grumbles and playful shoving from the old men. 

“Good to meet you, lad, and welcome to Devon-by-Sea.  Name’s Paedrick, which you probably picked up by now, and since you’re on their tab, you can have whatever you like,” the burly man offered.  Paedrick grinned at Kieran, leaning his left forearm on the bar, extending his right hand for Kieran to shake and looking the boy in the eye. Kieran seemed a little bewildered by the hearty good nature of everyone around him.  It had to be so different from Val Royeaux, Caitwyn knew, the rough manners and easy way people had at odds with the rules of the Orliesian court.

“Good to meet you, too, Paedrick,” Kieran said, a touch seriously.  He was still trying to parse out the rules by which the village operated.  Regardless, he shook Paedrick’s hand, and the barkeep grinned.

“Polite lad, you are.  Not that that’s a bad thing, mind,” Paedrick commented, standing and adjusting the off-white apron he wore over his white shirt.  “Right, I’ll do you up some fish, then, and my daughter Hetty made some fresh fry bread.” Paedrick tossed them all one final grin, and Alistair pulled up a seat next to Kieran, and they sat in a row, Morrigan’s son between Cait and Alistair.  Soon, their food was set in front of them, the heavenly scent of fried fish making her mouth water, but out the corner of her eye Caitwyn saw Kieran fidget, as if he were looking for something.

“What is it, Kieran?” she asked quietly, and he shot her a panicked look. 

“There’s no cutlery,” he said quietly, but his voice rose in discomfort.  Alistair heard the frightened confusion in Kieran’s voice and nudged him with his elbow.  That got Kieran’s attention, and he watched as Alistair demonstrated that this was, likely to the despair of whatever tutor Kieran had once had in Orlais, finger food.  With only a touch of hesitation, Kieran followed suit, carefully tearing off a bit of the fry bread and using that to break off a portion of fish. Clearly dubious, Kieran took a bite, and then brightened as he realized that fried fish and fried bread were completely and utterly fantastic.

“Thank you, Paedrick!  This is really good!” Kieran said between mouthfuls.  Caitwyn had to hide her mouth behind her hand, or her mirth would take her food from her.  Alistair caught her eye over Kieran’s head, and he grinned at her. In his hazel eyes she could see a mix of burgeoning fondness for Kieran, in and of himself, and a cautious kind of pride that he had been able to help the lad navigate these new waters.  She returned his gaze with a small nod of approval, and the three of them shared a pleasant meal of fresh fish and warm bread.

 

* * *

They had lingered in the village, showing him where the fields were, and taking him around to the smithy, run by Jharon, Hetty’s husband, when he expressed an interest in seeing it.  Then they took Kieran to Mayor Neam for some tea and biscuits, and Caitwyn had seen Lunete load the boy down with pocketfulls of her cookies just as they left. Then they had circled back to Yena’s shop for the sturdier, plainer clothes she had been able to alter to fit that day.  Instead of two sets of clothes, they had walked away with four, and Caitwyn made a mental note to give her something a little extra for her trouble. 

With loaded packs, Caitwyn and Alistair were in no particular rush and took their time, though Kieran had trotted on ahead of them as they walked back to their house hand-in-hand.  She enjoyed the fact that she could hold Alistair’s hand in public and no one seemed to much mind, particularly after so long of keeping the exact nature of their relationship quiet at the Vigil.  There were two other mixed-race couples in Devon-by-Sea, Yena’s husband was human, and Jharon had left his Dalish clan for Hetty. 

“So, how was that?  Not too much for your first day out?” Caitwyn asked as they walked home in the waning sunlight of the early evening.  The wind had picked up, bringing the salt smell of the ocean to her, and teasing a few shorter curls of hair out of her braid.

“No, that was probably just right,” Kieran replied, turning to walk backwards at the sound of her voice.  He had a long stick in one hand, picked up as they walked home, and had been swishing through the knee-high grass that grew up along the dirt path. 

“Well, we had a thoroughly productive day, which I’m not sure how I feel about that, but not bad overall,” Alistair agreed, squeezing her hand tightly. 

“Get ready for more productivity tomorrow, because we have a lot to do if we’re to be winter ready.  Lorent and Ven said they could come out and help reinforce the cellar in a couple of days, and give us a supply of grain to get us through the winter.  But they’re going to want help with the harvest starting next month in exchange. I volunteered you,” she told him. Ven was one of the more successful farmers in the area, and his partner Lorent Neam, Lunete’s son, did a little home brewing on the side.  They knew their food storage, those two.

“Work, work, work.  And here I thought we were  _ retired _ ,” Alistair drawled. 

“Alas,  _ vhenan _ , we must still dirty our hands to survive,” Caitwyn said, putting on an exaggerated tone of despair.  Then she noticed Kieran grinning at them, like they were some kind of play he got to watch for free. “And you, lad, are going to have chores starting tomorrow.”

“Kieran, run, run and don’t look back.  She’s a madwoman and won’t be stopped. Flee, while you have the chance!”  Alistair caught Cait about her middle, halting her progress. Caitwyn struggled, though it was in vain, and the whole production made Kieran burst out in a fit of giggles as he ran, playing along with the joke.  “Honestly, you’re going to inflict chores on him already? You’re a heartless woman.”

“You agreed that he should be kept busy,” Caitwyn pointed out, wiggling a little and managing to get her arm free.

“Well, yes, but I didn’t think it would involve  _ chores _ .  Chores are the worst thing you can do to a boy.  I should know. I hated chores,” he told her, finally letting her go.  Kieran waved at them from up ahead, staying within their line of sight, and they waved back.

“I had chores, and I’m none the worse for it, and neither are you.  Besides, one of those chores will be training the puppies, and I think he’s more than happy to help there,” Caitwyn countered.  Then Alistair sighed, in spite of their teasing, his eyes tracking up to the darkening sky.

“I did alright with him today, didn’t I?” Alistair asked, still not looking at her.  Instead, he bent down to pick up a stalk of grass and playing with it, letting his long legs take slow steps.

“I think so, but why do you ask?”  Caitwyn watched him as they walked, the wind ruffling his hair, and his lips thinned in thought.  Then Alistair rolled his shoulders, as if trying to better settle his pack, but betraying his uncertainty.

“I just.  I see him, a boy, ten years old, left in an unfamiliar place, with people he doesn’t know very well, and it’s all new for him.  New routines to learn, new rules, and he’s trying hard get it right, because he might just be a little bit afraid of what could happen if he gets it wrong.”  His voice was quiet, as he drew a line between his own life and Kieran’s, and Caitwyn ached for him. She recaptured his hand with her own, squeezing as tight as she could.  He took a breath, and let the bit of grass float away on the wind. “And I don’t want him to feel like he isn’t wanted here. We might not have asked for him, but he’s here, and I want to do right by him.  I don’t know what that means, though. Never done anything like this before, and I don’t exactly have a good example to follow. I suppose it hit me just now what we’ve taken on.”

He talked himself out, and they continued to walk at a slow pace, their house on its little hill coming into view, only a few summer flowers holding on now.  She saw Kieran open the door and go inside, and she stopped, touching Alistair’s arm, halting his progress. Reaching up, she ran her dark fingers through his blonde hair, drawing his eyes to hers.

“You’re doing just fine, Alistair, I promise, though I don’t really know much better than you.  The last time I looked after children for more than a few months, I was half a child myself. And as you pointed out last night, my mother trained me to be a thief.  But Alistair, he wasn’t cast out.” Tracing his brow, his jaw, she let her hand rest on his neck, and he dipped his head to hers, his shoulders relaxing a fraction. “He wasn’t left on an uncaring doorstep.”

“No, no he wasn’t,” Alistair agreed vehemently.  Then he pressed his lips to her forehead in a kiss, and she could feel those lips curled up in the barest smile.

“Come on, let’s go home,” she urged.  Taking a step further up the path, she held his hand, leading him on.  His grin when he looked at her was as crooked and beautiful as ever.

“Sounds perfect.”


	8. How Delicate the Threads

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> TW: Bullying

“… and Sister Tannis says that I’ve been a really big help teaching the little ones.”  Kieran spoke between bites of dinner as Caitwyn listened to the daily report. It was a simple meal, roast grouse that she and Kieran had hunted up that morning before the boy had gone in to the village to study at the Chantry.  It was just her and Kieran at the cedar table, as it had been for the past month while Alistair was out in the fields from dawn to dusk helping the other men bring in the harvest. Violet curled up underneath Kieran’s chair, her brother Oak curled up under her own, and Caitywn had a fair idea of what puppy had picked her for its person.  She knew she would have to give the other ones away eventually, but she told herself the others really did need more training and a chance to bond with  _ someone _ if she was to find them good homes.

The past two months had been a frenzy of activity.  She had taken charge of teaching Kieran woodscraft in the early mornings, when the hunting was best.  Once they had even left the night before to get to better hunting grounds deeper in the forest. The meat and furs and feathers they had brought back had been more than ample payment for Kieran’s new clothes and boots for the coming winter, as well as helping the Chantry expand its collection of books on all subject matters.  It also kept Kieran in supply of paper and pencils, his penchant for drawing unmistakable, though he had yet to show her what he drew. 

Just prior to the harvest beginning in earnest, Alistair had shown Kieran how to handle a handful of household chores that Cait had deemed suitable, like fetching water, cleaning the hearth, and inspecting the walls and roof of the house for gaps that needed to be chinked.  He had even taught the boy how to sharpen a blade, though it was for the sickle they used to cut the grass around the house in preparation for planting a spring garden. And on top of that, Kieran went in to the village three times a week to continue his studies with Sister Tannis.

Keeping Kieran busy had not been a problem in the least.

But the days were getting shorter, the evenings longer and colder.  The fireflies of summer had gone, as had all the wildflowers, the grass on the hill turning yellow and dry.  To keep the chill at bay, Caitwyn and Alistair both took extra care that the fire in the hearth was properly built and tended.  They couldn’t let it go out as the cold was coming on, or the house would never stay warm. Now, at their small table, she and Kieran sat, and she listened to him talk about what he had learned that day and the games he and his friends played.

“…and you know Terje’s really clever.  She came up with this counting game, and you have to match certain pairs of numbers, and it’s all about keeping the numbers in your head, then Eridin set it to a rhythm, so we had to do music  _ and _ numbers, but I think that made it easier,” Kieran told her with all the authority he could muster. 

Caitwyn had no blessed idea what he was talking about, since he kept forgetting to explain how any of the games worked, and spoke as if she knew the rules already.  While she could parse out the rules once he actually described how the game was played, the problem was that the rules seemed to change every time he saw the other children.  That meant every time she figured out how to play, he’d turn around and tell her she was using the old rules. Setting that quibble aside, Caitwyn knew what mattered most was that Kieran had begun to settle into village life.  He had found a small handful of friends among the village children and turned his curious mind to every task she and Alistair threw at him. And thanks to all this outdoor activity, his skin was no longer quite so pale, and his hair had faint auburn highlights in it. 

“Sounds like you had a good day at the Chantry, then,” she said, happy to see him thriving.  He gave her a wide grin, all boyish pride, and for a second she had to blank her expression to hold back a shock of recognition.  He had the same crooked grin that Alistair did, and she was torn between wanting to scoop him up and hug him in that moment and knowing that it wasn’t her place to bring up his parentage.  

Thankfully, Kieran didn’t seem to notice her momentary lapse, and she covered it with a thoughtful frown.  That he did notice. Tilting his head cautiously, he didn’t ask what she was thinking about, because he had learned that she was often thinking of chores that needed doing.  What she said instead was, “You need a haircut.”

“You think so?” he asked.  A lock of hair between his fingers, he held it out in front of his face and then measured it down just past his chin.  “Okay, maybe I do. Will you do it?”

“How about tomorrow?  And don’t worry, I’ve been cutting Alistair’s hair for years,” she assured him.  

“Oh, is that why it’s the way it is?  I think I’ll pass.” Kieran bit his lip as he tried to maintain a serious façade, but his cheeks puffed out with suppressed glee.  Caitwyn’s eyes went wide and her mouth hung open in utter shock, which made Kieran finally break and giggle at his own joke. 

“Why you cheeky little cub!” she declared, reaching around the table to tickle him in the ribs.  He squirmed away from her, laughing even harder. And that was when Alistair came through the door, covered in dirt and detritus from the harvest, his coat slung over one shoulder and two packages held under his other arm.  Kieran took advantage of Cait’s distraction to wiggle away from her admittedly short reach, and Caitwyn admitted defeat.

“Never fails, you have fun without me,” Alistair whined as he drew out the process divesting himself of his various burdens and removing his boots.  Caitwyn merely raised one dark eyebrow and removed the cloth over the third plate she had set, heaped full of meat, potatoes and squash. A smug smile curved her full lips, and without missing a beat Alistair sat down and began to eat like a man starved.

“You’re welcome,” she said as he was damn near face down in the food as it was.  He glanced up at her, expression a cross between exasperation and embarrassment, but then the glint in his eye warned her that he was about to exact a measure of revenge.  Still in dirty breeches and tunic, he slid out his chair, sinking to one knee, and took both of her small, dark hands in his larger, also still dirty, ones and gazed up at her with an expression of such abject remorse that she knew it for a put-on.

“My dearest, fairest, Cait,” he began.  She snorted at the flowery language, but he pressed on, undeterred.  “You have my deepest, most abject gratitude and my most humble apologies for not extolling the virtues of your cooking.  Forsooth, it was the hope of such a repast that lead me on, to bypass the tavern and its fried fish, with which we all well acquainted, but no, no I said to myself, Alistair, you must press on to your lovely Cait, and—”

“Andraste’s knickers, Alistair, eat your bloody dinner!”  Her strident tone was undercut by her helpless laughter, and she waved away the whatever madness was going to pop out of his mouth next. 

“Only if you insist, my beautiful flower, light of my life,” he exhorted, unable to resist a parting shot.  Regaining his place in his chair, he did at least eat at a slightly more sedate pace. Kieran snickered at Alistair’s antics, and man and boy exchanged a mischievous glance.  Caitwyn hid her grin behind her mug of tea, because if she didn’t, Alistair would only be encouraged. But her grin was for more than his antics. It was also because of how far they all had come.  Only two months ago Kieran had been entrusted to their care, uncertain and unsure, and now he seemed to feel perfectly at home. And Alistair had grown in confidence as a guardian, no longer looking to her for assurance that he had done the right thing.  A strange little family, but a good one she thought.

While Alistair ate, he was also treated to the full daily report from Kieran, the boy apparently unbothered by having to repeat himself.  However, when Kieran took a breath to launch into another explanation of the counting game, Alistair held up a hand, forestalling the glut of information he didn’t want.  Gesturing with his knife to the packages by the door, Alistair said, “Kieran, almost slipped my mind, but one of those packages is for you.”

“Really?” Kieran asked, already out of his seat.  Taking up the larger of the two packages, Kieran brought it back to the table.  He traced the lines of address and brightened. “It’s Mother’s hand! Can I open it right here?”

“Of course,” Caitwyn replied, unashamedly curious to see what Morrigan had sent her son.  Kieran took out his pocket knife, purchased from Jharon’s smithy, and pried apart the thin wooden slats of the box.  Ever a conscientious boy, he read the letter first, and whatever Morrigan had written, it clearly made Kieran happy. He withdrew a small sending crystal first, much like the one Caitwyn had in her lockbox, and then a large book.  Kieran pushed his plate away and laid the book on the table, letting it fall open. 

All the pages were blank.

“So, she got you a journal?” Alistair asked, peering at it cautiously.  It looked like an ordinary book, bound in brown leather with only a minimal flowing embossed border, with an apparently simple latch on the side.  Apparently being the operative word. Caitwyn would have bet all she had that Morrigan had enchanted it thoroughly. Kieran shook his head, and was nearly bouncing with excitement.

“Not exactly.  She says that the sending crystal is good for quick talks, but that if I want to tell her lots of things that I should use the book.  Whatever I write in it here will appear in a book  _ she _ has, and she can write in her book, and I’ll see what she wrote!  It’s like letter writing, but with magic!” Kieran enthused, fingertips reverently turning the pages, already contemplating all the things he could finally tell his mother.  “Can I be excused? I have so much to write to her about!”

“Go on, Kieran, I’ll clean up tonight.”  At Alistair’s assurance, Kieran bounced away to his room, grinning from ear to ear.  Caitwyn rested her head on one hand and patted Alistair’s knee with the other, but her eye was drawn to where the other package sat by the door, curiosity tickling the back of her mind. 

“So,” she drawled, not even trying to be subtle.  “What did you do?”

“What do you mean, what did I do?” 

“The other package.  I didn’t order anything, so you must have.”  He gave her a helpless shrug, as if it was all beyond him.

“You’ll just have to open it to find out.”  Caitwyn and Alistair locked eyes for a moment, each daring the other to move first, but then her curiosity got the better of her and she had to investigate. 

Retrieving the package like a bird diving for prey, she held the soft bundle in her hands and carefully untied the white string that held the sackcloth together.  Peeling back the wrapping, seeing what was inside, she gasped and held the bundle to her chest, not sure if she was delighted, surprised, or amazed, but certainly she felt her ears going a little warm and her heart fluttering.  Holding out the package again, she smiled, tracing her fingers across the embroidered little white flowers across the bodice of the dark green dress. She could remember the last time she’d had such a beautiful dress, the day of her wedding, the day she hadn’t gotten married.  She hadn’t worn a dress since that day until coming to Devon-by-Sea, but she had found the simple dresses the local women wore to be sensible, sturdy things, especially considering they all wore breeches under their dresses anyway. It was just another layer of warmth, really. But she hadn’t thought to get herself a  _ nice _ dress, even with the Harvest Festival in two days.

Shaking it out of the rest of the wrapping, she held it up, letting the skirt fall to the floor, more of those white flowers around the hem and the sleeves.  It wasn’t like anything ladies at court wore, but the cotton was finely woven and soft to the touch and she thought it was perfect for their life here. Alistair watched her admire the dress, and she saw deep tenderness in his eyes when she smiled shyly at him.

“So, you like it, then?” Alistair asked, clearly pleased with himself.

“You know I do,” she answered, stepping around the table to kiss him deeply.  His mouth opened up in response to hers, and she dug her fingers into his hair.  She had missed his touch, touch like this while he had been hard at work at the harvest, and she propped one knee up to the side of his hip, half straddling him in his chair.  His hand firmly grasped her hip and ran down over her buttocks and her leg. Then she had to take a breath, but that meant she also smelled him properly. She wrinkled her nose.  “But first, you need a bath.”

 

* * *

 

Ven Renold’s farm was the largest in the area, and the night of the Harvest Festival the entire village filled the property.  They had been told they didn’t need to bring anything, being so new, but Cait had heard that other women were bringing things to share around.  Never more than a passable cook in her own estimation, there was one thing she’d learned to make well: bread. It was simple thing to make, and she’d added fresh herbs and sprinkled cracked salt across the top, hopefully making something simple a little bit special.

“What if they don’t like it?” she asked nervously.  She walked the path up to the farmhouse in her new dress, her dark hair unbraided, curls held away from her face by white and green ribbons.  Alistair wore a blue tunic belted at the waist over a white linen shirt and clean breeches, and he walked next to her, carrying the second basket of bread.  As usual, Kieran walked a short distance ahead of them, wearing his black over-tunic for the occasion, the one he’d had from Val Royeaux minus all the extra court trimming, and his trimmed hair laid flat against his head.

“Uh, if the test batches you made Kieran and I eat were anything to go by, you’ll be mobbed for the recipe,” Alistair said, the picture of confidence.  But then, he always had more confidence in her than he did in anything else.

“It’s really good, Caitwyn, honest.  I’m gonna make sure Terje and Dyfan and Eridin and Filla all have some,” Kieran promised, and was off like an arrow to find his friends.

“Did he just say ‘gonna’?” Caitwyn asked Alistair as they rounded the corner of the house.  On the sprawling lawn rows of tables were set up with a large spread of food and beer and cider.  She could smell roast pig and chicken, and someone was tuning up a fiddle. This was the last gasp before winter set in, and people were loud and jolly by the warmth of the fires.  Combined with the mass of people, the chill of near-winter had no place here, at least not for the night.

“His mother will kill us for that lapse in grammar, I’m fairly certain,” Alistair commented.  Then without any warning he was dragged away by Paedrick to join some of the men. Caitwyn was similarly co-opted by other women, including Yena and Hetty.  All of them were thankful the harvest was over and their men were back to their normal routines, while also fussing over Hetty’s baby daughter, just over a year old and already with a thick head of red, curly hair like her mother.

It was surreal, Caitwyn thought, to be here like this, living a simple life, the kind of life she had thought she had left behind in Denerim when she was eighteen.  A life that revolved around honest work and the people she loved, no worries about the Blight or Darkspawn or the Taint. No fear of the Deep Roads and what waited down in the dark for her.  After all she had done, all she had seen and come to know, it beggared belief that she was here now. Sneaking a glance at Alistair, she smiled to see him in the middle of a crowd, making the other men laugh and earning a hearty slap on the back.  He glanced up and saw her watching him, and he gave her that crooked smile she loved so dearly.

Surreal, but not unwelcome in the slightest.

 

* * *

 

Kieran laughed running just behind Eridin, Dyfan a half step behind him, as they came away from the sweets table loaded down with as many little cookies as they could carry.  It was a Festival, and all the food was there everyone to share, similar to how food was served at court functions in Orlais. There all the food was small and dainty, served off of gilded sideboards and with attentive staff to ensure that all was kept neat and tidy.  This was not neat or tidy, and it had been confusing at first, the way he was allowed to simply run around without having to stay within sight of Caitwyn or Alistair. Then he realized that every adult kept half an eye out for all the children of the village, which he was one of now.

It was strange, to be part of something like that.  At Court, he had always been a little bit apart, the dreams he had a constant reminder that he was different, and the protections his Mother had placed around him had kept most of the Court from directly interacting with him.  And now when he dreamed, it wasn’t of strange things, golden cities become black, or dragons deep underground. He thought they might be normal dreams, his dreams of flying with fish and walking on trees. What had been scary had been the idea of talking to other children.  He hadn’t spent much time with people his own age, and he had no idea what to expect. But he had found friends. Real friends, all his own. They were like him, who liked learning and spent as much time as they could with Sister Tannis.

“Come on, guys!  Keep up! Terje and Filla are waiting!  I bet they’ll be impressed with what we got!” Eridin’s round face displayed all his excitement at the prospect of showing off their spoils. 

“Only cause you got a crush on Terje!” Dyfan teased, his flaming red hair making him stick out, as well as his height.  Even at nine, Dyfan was taller than the rest of them. Though Kieran supposed Terje didn’t count for height comparisons, being a dwarf and all, but with Hetty for a mother, Dyfan was destined to be a mountain of a person.

“Do not!” Eridin yelled and kept running.  Right into Terje. Kieran winced in sympathy, and Dyfan restrained himself to a low snicker.  Terje, the oldest of them at twelve, simply picked herself back up and dusted off her pretty blue dress, an even tinier version of her mother Yena, with the same dark blonde hair.  Filla stood just behind the other girl, wearing a simple red dress, her dark eyes critically surveying the cookies that had been crushed by the collision, dirtying Eridin’s nice brown tunic.

“I don’t think those are good to eat anymore, Eri,” Filla teased her twin brother, but Terje nudged the other girl frowning slightly.  Eridin’s ears went bright red, and Kieran felt bad for him.

“But we’ve got more!” Kieran offered, stepping forward, showing off his bounty. 

“Yeah, me too!” Dyfan echoed.

“We wouldn’t have done so well without Eri.  He pointed out all the good stuff,” Kieran continued, trying to help his friend recover a little bit of pride in front of Terje.

“I’m sure it’ll be fine.  Come on, we found a good spot, and I have a new knucklebones set if we want to try it out,” Terje said brightly, appearing entirely unconcerned about the collision or the lost cookies.  They all followed Terje, Eridin a little less dejected about the whole accident now, and sat on the dry grass under a tree at the far end of the property. They were still within sight of the main bonfire and the torches set up about the place, but they were away from the overwhelming din of the party.  Kieran saw Gregor, a fisherman and Terje’s step-father, notice them as he got a mug of beer from the closest keg, marking their location and apparently satisfied that they weren’t up to any real mischief.

Eating cookies and playing knucklebones with his friends, Kieran couldn’t remember having so much fun as he was having tonight.  It was like nothing else had been in his whole life, and as much as he missed Mother, he was starting to think of this village as home.  

It was his turn, then, to roll the knucklebones, and he happened to spot some of the village youths heading their way, slipping past the adults and heading for the darkness of the tree line.  There were four of them, three boys and one girl, and one of the boys had slung his arm around the girl’s shoulders. Kieran glanced up quickly, little more than a flicker of his eyes drawn by the movement of people going past, but that was enough to get the attention of one of them.

“Hey Gavin, think that new boy’s eyeballing you,” one of them said.  Kieran motioned for his friends to pick up the game and get out of here.  He knew tones like that, he had heard them at Court, one noble to another, and he knew what it meant: trouble.  Terje stood and faced the older youths, likely fourteen or thirteen to her twelve years of age, hands on hips.

“No one’s eyeballing anybody Brennic,” Terje said defiantly, and Kieran wished she hadn’t done that.

“It’s okay, Terje, really, we’ll go, and I’m sorry about whatever I did,” Kieran whispered.  He wasn’t sure what ‘eyeballing’ meant, but it was likely not a good thing. 

“No, they can just leave us alone.  No one’s done anything to anyone,” Eridin said, standing next to the dwarf girl.  Kieran didn’t know how to feel, seeing his friends try to help him like this. Nothing like this had ever happened to him before.  Dyfan stood, too, his height nearly even with one of the older boys, and Filla somehow managed to look down her nose at the lot of them, even though she was barely taller than Terje.

“That’s right, no one’s doing any _ thing _ , to any _ one _ ,” one of the other boys said, the one that Brennic had called Gavin.  The four youths sauntered over to them, and Gavin looked down at Kieran, smug disdain in his blue eyes.  “But hey, he’s new here, so I want to help him out. Can’t be mad about that, helping out the new boy.” For some reason that Kieran couldn’t understand, this earned Gavin smiles from the older boys, and the girl laughed, the sound brittle to Kieran’s ears.

“Cause you know what I hear, kid?  I hear that your  _ guardians _ ,” Gavin drawled, putting as much contempt in to the word as possible, “ain’t what they seem to be.  Word is, see, that Alistair’s your da, but that your ma was a cold bitch, so he ran off with that knife-eared slut instead.  Ran here, but your ma tracked ‘em down, your pathetic da and that elf whore of his, and dumped you on ‘em cause she didn’t want you no more, threatened all sorts of sick shit, and here you are, all playing happy family, but it’s a lie.  Huh, look on your face, didn’t they tell you?”

“That’s not true,” Kieran said flatly, feeling hot in his chest, and his small hands clenched into fists.  His ears, his whole face felt too warm, and his breathing was hard to control. Kieran glared up at the older boy, and said through clenched teeth, “You don’t know what you’re talking about.”

“Kieran, don’t let him get to you,” Eridin urged, pulling on Kieran’s arm, trying to pull him away.

“Filla,” he heard Terje whisper, “get help.”  He didn’t see Filla run, fleet as a deer, dark hair streaming behind her, he didn’t hear Dyfan angrily demanding Gavin to call his father, the village smith, a knife-ear, too, didn’t pay attention to anything save the blood pounding in his ears or the smug, horrid face of the older boy in front of him.

“What?  You want me to say I’m lying?  Can’t, cause it's true that’s what they’re saying.  I’m doing you a  _ favor _ , kid.”  Gavin’s voice dripped with false concern, and the casual cruelty of it set Kieran’s blood on fire.  “Telling you the truth cause no one else will.”

“Take it back,” Kieran grit out, whole body tense, trembling.  He’d never felt so mad before, so angry, like he wanted to just punch something, particularly the boy’s stupid face with its stupid grin.  Mother would be upset with him, though, if he hit someone. Fists don’t solve problems, she had said. Words, cleverness, those were better.  But he had no words, and his mind didn’t feel very clever right now. It felt red.

“Make me,” Gavin taunted.  They locked gazes for a moment, but when Kieran did nothing, Gavin threw back his head and laughed.  “What a pussy, you know it’s true. That’s why you’re not fighting. Andraste’s tits, you probably wouldn’t fight back, you’re such a wuss.” 

And though Kieran half expected it, he was still startled when Gavin shoved him backwards.  Kieran hit the ground hard, jarring his elbows as he tried to break his fall. Chaos erupted, Dyfan and Eiridn charging at Gavin, but they were each stopped by one of the other boys.  Terje tried to stand between Gavin and Kieran, but Gavin shoved Terje out of the way. Kieran pushed himself back up only to be caught with a fist to his gut, making him double over.

He knew he should stay down, he should just let it go, but he couldn’t.  He couldn’t get out of his head the nasty, gleeful light in the older boy’s eyes as he said all those things, those things that  _ weren’t _ true.  Picking himself back up, he charged at Gavin, receiving a lazy punch to his face for his trouble, and then Gavin didn’t let him get up again.  Instead, the older boy knelt over him, punching him over and over, for daring to go against what Gavin said. Kieran tried to fight back, to cover his head and protect himself while batting ineffectually at the older, larger boy.

Dimly, he could hear shouting in the distance, and he saw the other boys hauling Gavin off of him, the older girl running off in the other direction, and he heard voices, voices he knew, his friends asking if he was alright.  Then Caitwyn was there, her gentle hands pulling his arms away from his head, her face falling at the sight of his injuries, and Alistair picked him up easily, as if he weighed nothing, holding him tight, like he never would let go. 

Hot tears ran down Kieran’s face, in part because he was hurt, and in part because he couldn’t get those horrible words out of his head.   _ Didn’t want you _ …  _ pathetic da… knife-eared slut… _ awful words, words that twisted and bit, words that he told himself again and again  _ were not true _ .  Couldn’t be true.  Words that went against everything his mother had hold him, but they still hurt.

How lies could hurt so much, Kieran didn’t know.

 

* * *

 

“That’s what we have, though he doesn’t seem too badly hurt,” Ven said, tone conciliatory.  He was a solidly built, older man in his middle years, with grey shot through his chestnut hair and beard.  An honest man and not unkind, Caitwyn thought. Caitwyn took the proffered medicine bag from him and refrained from pointing out that him being hurt  _ at all _ was the problem.  Boys scuffled, here, in Denerim.  Everywhere. But Maker help her how she hated it.  She glanced over her shoulder to where Kieran sat stiffly on a bed in one of the bedrooms on the upper floor of the farmhouse.  Alistair sat next to him, arm draped protectively around the boy’s shoulders, but Kieran kept his head down, not wanting to look at anyone. 

“It’s not his injuries I’m worried about, Ven,” she said quietly.  “The other children, they told us what that boy said. Hearing things like that, it can hurt a child deeper than wounds can.”  Then she regarded the farmer sharply, her green eyes glinting dangerously in the lamplight, her words clipped and pointed as arrows.  “Also, you and I are going to have a talk later, about those rumors.”

“We’ll get to the bottom of it.  Lunete likes all three of you, and trust me, getting on the bad side of that woman in this village is about the worst thing you can do,” Ven assured her, a note of stone in his voice as he spoke.  It surprised her, that he would take this to heart, but then it did happen on his land. Out here, that meant something, what happened on a man’s land. Then a dry expression twisted his lips, a mix between old amusement and old frustration.  “Don’t ask how long it took to get her approval for Lorent to move in here to the house with me. Just don’t.”

“Alright, I’ll drop it for now,” she allowed, letting out a slow, steadying breath.  “And thank you again.” She held the bag up, signaling her thanks once last time, and he nodded.  Entering the room, she closed the door behind her and knelt in front of Kieran, setting the medicine bag to her left.  Taking out a fresh strip of linen and some rubbing alcohol, she wet the linen and dabbed gently at the cuts on Kieran’s brow and lip, making him wince.  He had bruises on his arms and face, and he held himself gingerly, telling her that he had taken a blow to the stomach as well. She would have to pay attention to how he ate over the next few days, but she doubted it was as serious as that.

“Kieran.”  She kept her voice soft, and his hazel eyes flickered to her then away, shame hanging over him like a cloud.  “Kieran, we’re not mad at you, if that’s what you’re worried about.”

“I’m not,” he said sullenly.  She blinked, taken aback at his tone, and exchanged a surprised glance with Alistair.  He gave a half shrug, indicating he wasn’t sure what to do either. The rumors that Gavin boy had repeated to Kieran were dead on to the secret they had tacitly promised Morrigan they would keep.  But Kieran had to come before that promise, so she tilted her head toward the boy and silently asked Alistair to try to talk to him.

“Kieran, did you want to talk about what that boy said?  About me and Cait and your mother?” Alistair asked tentatively.  Kieran shook his head.

“No.  He lied.  I just want to go back to the house,” he said shortly, and Caitwyn had to suppress a sigh.  She was not about to  _ make _ him talk, knowing that was a fast road to losing his trust.  Instead, she finished cleaning him up his cuts and scrapes, and made to leave. 

They walked in silence as they left the party behind, though her sharp ears caught snatches of conversation as they left  _ that poor boy _ ,  _ you have heard the rumors though _ , and  _ shame, I thought they were nice enough _ floating to her.  She hoped neither Kieran nor Alistair heard, that their human ears weren’t quite good enough to notice, and she made a mental note to talk to Lunete Neam  _ very soon _ .  Then she caught sight of Hetty and Jharon striding quickly toward them, breaking away from a group of people, their son Dyfan following behind, and their baby girl in Hetty’s arms.

“Caitwyn!  Alistair! Hold a moment.” Jharon called out to them in his deep voice, and they waited for the family to catch up with them along the star-lit path back to the village.  They made a striking pair, Hetty a mountain of a woman with a mass of red hair and bright green eyes like her father, and Jharon, a slim elf from one of the nearby Dalish clans, his dark brown hair and eyes almost black in the night.  Dyfan, like all children of humans and elves, took after his human parent more, but he had his father’s eyes. Without hesitation, the younger boy stepped close to Kieran, walking shoulder to shoulder with him down the path while the adults followed some distance behind.

“We’re so sorry.  We didn’t think, well, there was trouble when I married Jharon, but I thought that stupid kind of thing was behind us.  No one kicked up a fuss when Gregor married Yena last year,” Hetty rattled off, her voice a clarion challenge in the night.  “He even formally adopted Terje!”

“But you grew up here,  _ vhenan _ .”  Jharon gently reminded his wife of what she could not see. How hate of elves and those not  _ normal _ ran deep.  “And the whole village saw Gregor court Yena and make a fool of himself for her.   By the end, it was a relief when she said yes, and he went back to normal.”

“Still, it’s blind stupidity is what it is.  You and I both know Gavin Alrect wouldn’t say anything that didn’t come out of his da’s mouth first,” Hetty countered, eyes narrowing.  “Don’t you worry, if Lunete doesn’t put a stop to this, I will. And if they argue with me, they won’t like to argue with my da!”

Caitwyn wondered what she had done in her life that let her find people such as this, especially with them so new to the village.  It was the people in the smallest places, sometimes, who had the largest hearts, and she was grateful for it. She watched as Dyfan put an arm around Kieran’s shoulders, and the boys walked in lock step all the way back to the village.  Likely, that his friend was there did more than anything her or Alistair ever could for Kieran, at least right now. 

“Thank you, both of you,” Caitwyn told them sincerely.  “Though you didn’t have to leave the party on account of us.”

“Oh yes, yes we did.  Yena and Gregor were giving a few people a piece of their minds, and I don’t think I’ve ever seen Sister Tannis in such a state.”  Hetty’s grin was vicious and proud, a mother to the bone, defending anyone she had taken to her heart.

“And we understand, better than most, that perhaps you would not wish to walk the entire way back to your home in the dark by yourselves,” Jharon said, dark eyes catching the light of the stars.  She had the sense that Jharon spoke from a place of experience, but there was much about them that their friends did not know. One of them was that anyone who thought to ambush her or Alistair in the night was in for a surprise of the highest order.

“Thank you, but I think we’ll be fine from here,” Alistair said as they reached the half tumbled down village wall.

“Are you sure?” Hetty asked, but Jharon watched them with a studied expression.

“I think they will be quite alright,  _ vhenan _ ,” he answered.  “Come along, Dyfan, we’re to home.”

“ _ Papae _ , can I stay with Kieran tonight?  If it’s alright,” the red-haired boy asked turning to his parents and then to Caitwyn and Alistair.  Kieran kept his head down, but the offer seemed to make him relax, just a little.

“It’s alright with us, right?” she asked, glancing up at Alistair for confirmation.  Alistair nodded in agreement.

“Of course, we have an extra pallet for you.  There’s just one danger. You might be licked to death by the puppies,” Alistair teased.

“A fate worse than death for a boy,” Jharon commented wryly.  “Very well, go along. I’ll come by in the morning for you. This won’t get you out of chores at the smithy.”

“Yes,  _ Papae _ ,” the boy said dutifully, and with a kiss to his mother goodnight, Dyfan joined them on their walk home.  That made whatever plans she had about trying to get Kieran to talk again rather moot. The boys headed for Kieran’s room, and the door shut solidly after them, a clear signal that Kieran wanted no help in getting his friend settled for the night. 

Sullen and shutting them out, it was not hard to see that Kieran was still mulling over what that horrid boy had said to him.  But at the moment, Caitwyn felt drained. She had faced monsters and horrors beyond imagining, but it still struck to know that some of the worst things that happened to people were other people.  Worse still how such monsters turned others into reflections of themselves. If Hetty was right, Gavin’s father was the ultimate source of tonight’s vitriol, and it was not in her to blame a boy for his father’s sins.  Not anymore at least.

Without speaking, she and Alistair fed the puppies, locked the house up for the night, and climbed into bed.  Under the blankets and quilts, she snuggled close to Alistair, the thin fabric of her night shirt the only thing between them.  The quiet of the house, which had once seemed like a solace to her, now felt oppressive, the quiet of people avoiding speaking, gravid with all that they did not say.  She wanted to ask how they could help Kieran, how they could heal a young boy’s heartache, but for once she had no idea how to start.


	9. What Matters to These Hearts

Alistair sat on the stump out behind the house, watching the sun rise over the ocean, the water and sky mirrors to each other, and the high cry of the seagulls breaking the relative quiet of the morning.  Last night had scared the hell out of him. Caitwyn had yelled at him across the yard that Kieran was in trouble, and they had run. It had taken everything in him not to chase down the horrid  _ shits _ that had hurt Kieran, and just thinking about it made him tense.  Worse, Terje and Eridin had told them what that boy had said, the lies wrapped around the one singular truth.  A truth that was now so muddled, he wasn’t sure how he would go about explaining it all even if Kieran asked outright.   Not that Kieran seemed eager to talk, a marked change from even a day ago, and that made it worse, to see him so changed.  Alistair forced his hands loose and his shoulders to relax, thinking about how he might help the lad. There was only one thing Alistair really knew how to do well.

“Right, no time like the present,” he said to himself.  Standing, he walked back into the house, for once not bothering to take off his boots and opened the door to Kieran’s room.  Both Kieran and his friend Dyfan looked up at him bleary eyed, and the pup, Violet, yipped at him excitedly. 

“Alistair?” Kieran asked rubbing tiredly at his eyes, his short black hair plastered to his head from sleep.  Dyfan looked a little more alert, though just as confused.

“Come on, both of you, up.  Got something special today,” he said, and left.  Caitwyn stood in the doorway to their bedroom, arms crossed under her breasts, already dressed in a tunic and breeches instead of one of her dresses.  But her hair was loose, so she hadn’t been up long. She watched him with wary eyes.

“What are you up to?”  Her tone was dry, but he was saved from answering by Kieran and Dyfan appearing, fully dressed, their curiosity winning out over their caution.

“Good, let’s go,” he said.  Then he led both boys back out behind the house and down the hill to a flat spot in the autumn-yellow grass.  “Form up!” After a moment’s hesitation, the boys stood side by side, not much of a line, but it would do. He glanced up to where Cait stood on the hill, hair picked up in the wind watching for a moment before returning to the house, and he supposed that was his tacit approval.  Because the one thing he could do was teach the boy how to fight, how to defend himself, and it was past time he started.

“Right, first lesson, hold out your hands, let me see, good.”  Both boys held out their hands, and then Alistair held up his hand and closed it in to a fist.  “This is how you make a fist, thumb on the outside and across the second knuckle, don’t close it too tight, and we’ll talk about how to hold your wrist in a bit.”  Kieran closed his hands, mimicking Alistair, and after half a second Dyfan did the same. Alistair took a moment to adjust a few things, and then nodded, satisfied. 

“Second lesson, how to hit.  Strike with the knuckles of these two fingers,” a tap to the knuckles of Kieran’s index and middle fingers as he knelt in the tall, dry grass, “keep your wrist straight, and don’t lock your elbow, keep it just a touch bent.”  With one hand held palm out before each boy, he looked from his hand to them and back. “Go on, then.”

“But, we’d be hitting  _ you _ ,” Dyfan said, looking a little uncomfortable with the whole prospect.

“Ah, trust me, I’ll be alright, and you need a good target to start.  My hand will do ‘till we get something better,” he said, and then looked to Kieran.  He watched Alistair with cautious hazel eyes from underneath black brows.

“This won’t make it better, Alistair,” Kieran said shortly, with more understanding than a boy of ten should have.

“No, no it won’t,” he answered softly, lowering his hands, and looking his son in the eye.  “But it can stop there from being a next time. I’d like to say that everyone out here is a good person, like Dyfan, like his parents, like all your friends, but they aren’t.  But there’s a difference between picking fights and finishing fights. Do you both understand that?”

“Yes, ser!” Dyfan said.  Alistair suddenly felt a little guilty for starting to teach Dyfan without asking his parents, but if he’d delayed, there was the risk the fear and the hurt would have sunk in deep to Kieran’s heart.  The best cure for fear, Alistair had learned, was not necessarily being able to fight back, but not feeling like you were helpless. Learning to fight could, maybe, keep Kieran from feeling like a walking target when he next was in the village.

“I think I understand,” Kieran said slowly, raising his head up.  There was a flicker of determination in his eyes that hadn’t been there before.  He brought his fists up next to his face, in mimicry of what he might have seen other boys do, and he struck Alistair’s raised hand sharply.  It was a wild punch, but Kieran threw his hip behind it without having to be told, giving the strike more power than Alistair expected, making his hand sting.  With a grin, he shook out his hand, and that more than anything seemed to lift Kieran’s spirits. 

“Good one, alright, Dyfan, your turn,” he said, and the other boy had a go.  As the sun gained the sky over the water, the boys took turns hitting, striking, and eventually Alistair had to get them to imagine targets to spare his hands.  By the time Jharon came to collect his son mid-morning, both boys had improved. Alistair had apologized for not asking permission to teach Dyfan first, but the elven smith waved it away.

“Better to learn properly, and from a man who knows what a fight is, than from scuffling with other boys,” Jharon said evenly.  Then he regarded Alistair like he was eyeing a bar of iron yet to be smelted. “You were an armsman up north, you said?”

“Yes,” Alistair said simply, the lie coming easily to him now.  It was something like the truth at least. “What of it?”

“Nothing, for now,” Jharon replied, and Alistair declined to ask further.  The elf might have been a smith in Devon-by-Sea for years, but he was still Dalish to the bone, and kept his own time for doing and saying things.  “Dyfan, come along now. You’ve still got chores at the smithy.”

“Yes,  _ Papae _ ,” the boy said, leaving Kieran where they had been playing with sticks on the beach, the puppies capering around them excitedly.  Father and son left, and Caitwyn joined Alistair where he stood, tucking her long hair behind her ears and then pulling her woolen shawl closer to her body.  The breeze pulled at his then shirt, making Alistair shiver in the still cool morning.

“You think it’s going to help?  Teaching him to fight now?” She spoke softly as they watched Kieran running parallel to the water, the dogs barking and yipping at him, and something like his usual smile on his face.

“It might, if only to distract him.  Though it might also hurt me in the process.”  To illustrate his point, he opened his hands palm up, showing Cait the red marks there left by the repeated strikes.  “Boy’s got an arm on him.”

 

* * *

 

"Alistair, I love you so much, but stop it. You're distracting them," Caitwyn said, her tone a mix of fondness and exasperation. 

"What? I want these ones to like me, unlike that old grumble-guts you had," Alistair said brightly.  Kneeling down, he roughly patted and petted the dogs, talking to them in a sing-songy voice. "Who’s the best pack of dogs in the world? You are! And you're going to like me and not get between me and Caitwyn when we snuggle, not like your sire, oh no."

Caitwyn couldn’t help the laugh that escaped her, recalling how Maethor used to, with the most innocent air possible, interpose himself between them.  It didn’t matter where. Once during the Blight, he invaded their tent, walked over (or intentionally walked  _ on _ , depending on who you asked) Alistair to flop down on their blankets.  Even after she had quarters in Vigil’s Keep, preventing the massive Mabari from climbing up on the bed had been no small task.

“We’re to be rehoming five of them.  Not all of them have to like you,” she pointed out, and was gratified to see Kieran smile at Alistair’s antics.  The boy was slowly coming out of the shell he had retreated into the night of the Harvest Festival. Yesterday Alistair had started teaching him how to fight, and that seemed to give Kieran some measure of confidence back.  Now she was trying to help coax him further back to his usual self through what seemed to be his favorite activity: training the puppies.

“All the more reason!  I don’t want to be chased by a pack of the mongrels when we go through the village!” he declared, feeding more dried meat to the pups, who snatched the strips of meat eagerly from his hands.  They were half grown now, all limbs and excitement instead of all puppy fat and excitement. Soon they’d start laying on thick slabs of muscle and reach their full weight. 

Caitwyn sighed, herding the puppies away from Alistair with brisk commands. They trotted back to her, barking excitedly and clamoring over each other, mouths hanging open for more treats. 

"Kieran, call them over to you, please.”

"Here, pups!" he called, holding out the treats he had.  They picked up that scent and ran for him, their mouths hanging open eagerly and their bottoms wagging. Laughing, he fed them while Caitwyn turned to Alistair, who stood and wiped his hands off on his breeches.

"It is not necessary to disrupt their training to make them like you, Alistair.”  She crossed her arms and glared at him pointedly. She wasn’t mad, per se, but she did take slight offense to him calling her dog, the dog that had seen her through those first terrible weeks of the Blight, a _grumble-guts_.  "And besides, I thought you liked Maethor."

"Eventually, yes, after he stopped trying to bite me!" Alistair protested, his voice rising in pitch.  She was gratified to see Kieran fighting to keep a smile off his face, and she thought they might be getting close.  Close to where he felt like he could talk to them again, where he felt like this was a place where he was safe.

"Oh, he never actually bit you.”  She rolled her eyes at Alistair’s false claims.  Maethor hadn’t ever bit the man. She didn’t think.  No, she was sure. Maethor had been a good boy.

"Yes, he did, and it left a scar, see?"  Alistair rolled down a sleeve and held up his forearm to Caitwyn's face. Caitwyn snorted and shook her head.

"You could have gotten that from anywhere. We all got bitten a lot in the old days, by a lot of weird things, other Mabari included.”

"This is very hurtful, you know, not believing me," Alistair mock complained, and Kieran couldn't suppress the laughter anymore.  At Kieran’s break in his control, both of them looked at him, Caitwyn grinning, and Alistair holding his hands to his heart in an over-exaggerated display of betrayal.

"You're both cruel, that's it. You don't want me around because you're training these dogs to attack me, aren't you?"  Alistair’s voice nearly broke in fake shock and horror. Caitwyn, who could admit she wasn’t normally someone who was given to silliness, still knew when an opportunity was too good to pass up when she saw one.

"No, you’ve done it, you've hit upon my dastardly plan, Alistair. Quickly, Kieran, release the hounds! We must defend ourselves!" she cried, flinging her arm out as if signaling a command.

"Pups! Attack!" Kieran shouted after a beat, a moment where he looked surprised at her antics.  But then he recovered and ran ahead of the dogs, leading the charge, and en masse they tackled Alistair to the ground, who was promptly the subject of immense puppy interest due to the smell of meat still on him.

"Ah! No!" Alistair cried out, trying in vain to ward off his attackers. Caitwyn's silvery laughter rang out, and Kieran, caught up in the moment and not thinking about whatever was haunting his thoughts, laughed.  It was a good laugh to hear, Caitwyn thought, an unfettered laugh. Maybe, with a bit more time, that laugh would not be so hard to earn as it was now.

 

* * *

 

Kieran pulled some of the firewood off the pile in the lee of the house, and then he snapped the tarp back over to keep the rest covered.  He moved quickly, the chill in the air more biting than crisp as autumn began to bleed into winter, and he wanted to get back inside. Up the stairs and through the door, the warmth of the fire wrapped around him like a blanket.  Toeing off his boots, he presented the firewood to Caitwyn, who took it from him with a smile.

“Thank you, Kieran, give me a hand, alright?”  Her voice was gentle as he knelt beside her, helping her build the fire back up.  The days were growing shorter, and that meant there were less outdoor chores to do.  Mostly cleaning and cooking and keeping the house warm.

He hadn’t written to Mother in a week, not since before the Harvest Festival, and he felt a little bit guilty about that.  But he didn’t know how to tell her what had happened, and he feared what she might write back if he told her about what Gavin had said.

Instead, he stuck to his chores, helping Caitwyn train the pups before they went to their new homes, and did his best when Alistair taught him how to fight.  His friends had come up to the house twice so far to learn, too, and that was more fun. It also distracted Kieran from seeing what he hadn’t thought to look for in the first place.  To Kieran it felt like he noticed some new similarity between himself and the former Warden every time it was just the two of them training. Their eyes and noses were similar, and he had snuck Caitwyn’s small glass mirror to examine his own face to make sure he wasn’t imagining things.  Maybe it was nothing, he thought, but those words  _ Alistair’s your da _ had stuck in his head and he couldn’t get it out.

He just couldn’t figure out  _ why _ . 

“Thank you, Kieran,” Caitwyn said.  His confusion deepened when he thought about her, trying to figure out how she fit into the lie.  She frowned, noticing his distraction, and she ran a hand along his arm. “You alright there? You looked a hundred miles away.”

“I’m alright, honest,” he said quickly, putting on a grin.  “Just getting cold out there.” She nodded, seeming to accept his answer.

“I was going to do that,” Alistair protested, appearing from around the couch.  “Stubborn woman, can’t leave you alone for five minutes. Come here.” No sooner did Caitwyn turn and stand up then Alistair took her hand and danced her around the cozy room, startling a laugh out of her.  Kieran watched them out the corner of eye, and he just couldn’t fathom it. If they loved each other so much, how  _ could _ Alistair be his father unless Caitwyn was his mother, but he looked too much like Mother for that to be possible.

It didn’t make any sense, but he knew it was true.  He  _ knew  _ it.  It was like when the last piece of a puzzle was put in its place, making everything else make sense.  The problem was that this was more like having the final piece without the rest of the puzzle. He knew it was important, but all the rest of the picture was hidden from him.

And he needed the rest of the picture.

But he was scared.

Scared that people would be hurt by asking to know for sure, scared that he would be at fault, that he wouldn’t be able to stay.  Because as much as he missed Mother—and he did—this place, this house and village, even with people like Gavin in it, was better than Val Royeaux. 

He had not known what to expect when Mother had left him here, but he had made friends and had Violet.  He had a room in a house instead of a set of rooms in a wing of a palace, and he ate dinner every night with Caitwyn and Alistair, never wondering where they were and if they would be back at all.  It was the first home he could remember having after leaving the mirror-place with Mother years ago. Only in the mirror-place had Kieran felt like this, like he was somewhere he belonged.

He didn’t want to lose that, didn’t want it to go away, but if he asked the question, there was the risk it might.

So he was stuck, between knowing and not knowing, between having a home and not, and he didn’t know what to do because no matter what he did, someone was going to hurt.  And he was pretty sure no matter what he did,  _ he _ would hurt.

The thoughts spun around his head, like how Caitwyn spun in and then out of Alistair’s arms.  Kieran had been trying, trying so hard to figure out what the right thing to do was, and watching them together like this, it made it hard to ask the questions he wanted to ask.  Caitwyn swatted Alistair playfully with a towel she had picked up, telling him to go get her some potatoes from the store room while he tried to pull her back in to a dance. Kieran couldn’t help but feel like asking would break something that he had only just learned to treasure.

 

* * *

 

The forest was hush and still, grey pre-dawn light filtering through the trees, and Caitwyn could smell winter in the air now.  It wouldn’t be long before the first snow of the season, and she wanted to make a final circuit for mushrooms and any game birds that might have delayed their journey north to escape the coming bitter cold.  On silent feet, she moved through the forest like a ghost, long hair braided and bound to stay out of her eyes and avoid snagging on bare, low-hanging branches. Her companion, however, was still learning. 

Kieran stepped on another bundle of twigs hidden under dead leaves, the sharp snap carrying through the damp air, startling a small flock of geese from where they had gathered.  She sighed and turned to see Kieran, his fur-lined coat unbuttoned, hanging his head with a sheepish look. 

“Sorry,” he mumbled.  He stuffed his hands into his pockets and toed the red, fallen leaves away from the pile of twigs that had been his downfall.  She took a moment to check the string of her bow, the wax still holding, and she slung it over her shoulder. Hunting could wait, she thought, this moment a rarity for the two of them in the week and days since the Harvest Festival.  It was almost as if Kieran had been very careful to not be alone and unoccupied around either her or Alistair lately. She had even left the dogs back at the house, none of them yet able to move quietly, nor did they have the inclination to do so, and so it was just the two of them.

“You sure you feeling alright?  Normally you don’t miss something that obvious,” she said, her voice low in the quiet morning.  He only offered a shrug by way of reply. “We could go back home, if you wanted. I can get mushrooming done any time of day.”

Kieran jumped over the rest of the pile, his boots hitting the dirt with a wet smack, and shook his head.  She resisted the urge to sigh. Maker help her, but how did the boy possibly think that he was hiding how much all of this had bothered him?  She had learned to read people at a young age, a matter of necessity and survival, and even Alistair hadn’t missed that Kieran wasn’t himself.  He had moments where it was like he was back to normal, as long as he was distracted by a set task, either training the pups or learning to fight, but the second it was done he retreated into his own head.

And if he was still turned inward on himself, she doubted Kieran had written to Morrigan.  She would not have let Kieran go on like this if she knew.

Watching him walk past her deeper into the forest, she was caught between aching for him, able to guess at what thoughts and questions were running through his head, and wanting to shake him for being a stubborn, sullen thing.  Following a few yards behind him, she went over her options. Since shaking him was certainly out of the question, that left either letting him suffer in silence, or confronting him about it. Letting him continue to stew was not really an option either.  She knew what it was to let hurt fester at that age, to let it take root in the mind and the heart, and how hard it was to shift if it was allowed to grow unchecked. That left her with one recourse: making him talk. Gently, perhaps, but resolutely giving him no more room to retreat into his own mind and whatever scenarios he had conjured up there. 

Increasing her pace, she easily caught him up.  Though she had made no effort to mask her steps, he started when she drew even with him and put a hand on his shoulder, halting his progress.  He seemed to squirm in his own skin as she regarded him, his hazel eyes a mix of confusion and fear and anger, and she almost let him go, afraid of hurting him more.  But sometimes the only way onward was through, whatever the cost.

“Kieran, you’ve had a question in your head for over a week now.  Let it out. It’ll be alright, I promise,” she told him, hoping he could hear the love in her voice.  Her heart clenched as she realized that was the first time she had thought that word about him. Love, oh Maker, she knew in that instant how she loved this once lonely, quiet boy, how she wanted to fight the world for him, to give him everything she never had, to let him know how treasured he was.  Kieran’s eyes went wide, and he inhaled sharply. Chest rising and falling rapidly, he looked on the edge of panic for a moment, but then fought it down, forcing himself to stillness.

“Is Alistair my father?” he asked, voice breaking.

“Yes, yes he is,” she answered.  Kieran took a half step back from her, and his face twisted in pained confusion.  His bare hands clenched at his sides, small chest rising and falling with unsteady breaths, the picture of uncertain indignation.

“I don’t understand!  How can he be my father?  You said, you both said you were together before the end of the Blight, but I was born  _ nine months after the Blight ended _ !  How can that be?  Didn’t he love you?  I’d thought, I’d hoped that my mother and father had loved each other, Mother even said he was a good man, but what kind of man does that?!  Or did my mother lie to me? Did she even want me? Did  _ he _ ?” Kieran yelled, birds breaking from the trees at the sound of his voice.  He glared at her, teeth clenched and breathing coming in unsteady gasps, his anger and confusion a volatile mix.

Heedless of whether or not he would try to push her away, she advanced and reached for him. Her hands, small but strong, held his face and made him look her in the eye.  He tensed, and she spoke quickly before he tried to flee from whatever he feared.

“Kieran, Kieran, listen to me, alright?  There are answers to all of your questions, but I need you to know you  _ are _ wanted.  You are  _ loved _ , Kieran, you are so very loved, and nothing is going to change that.  Not ever, do you hear me, Kieran? You are loved.  _ I _ love you.  Your mother loves you.  I know Alistair loves you too, and you can ask him for yourself if you don’t believe me.  I love you, Kieran, and this place is your home for as long as you want it to be. That’s not going to change.  Do you hear me? Do you?” Her words were a rush, a torrent of truth, of love for a boy she had never expected to be a part of her life.  A boy who had found his way to her heart as easy as breathing, and tears traced down her cheeks. She knew that even if she could control her face in this moment, she would not, not now.  Not when he needed to see for himself how much he was loved.

Tears fell from Kieran’s eyes as well, and he tried to speak, his mouth opening, but then he clamped his jaw and he could only nod.  Caitwyn pulled him to her, his head bowed to tuck under her chin. After a moment of hesitation, he hugged her back, clinging to her as if afraid he would be swept away.  She felt him shiver as the fear began to leave him, and on impulse she kissed the top of his head.

“It’s alright now, it’s alright.  You’re alright,” she said softly, half to him and half to herself.  He sniffed, and then pulled back from her, shyly meeting her eyes again.  With a thumb, she wiped his tears away, and he reached for her face, tracing her tears with his fingers.

“I’m sorry.  I didn’t want to ask, because, because I was scared.  I thought, I thought this might go away, that you might make me go away, and I didn’t want that,” he said, voice small.  Pulling his head forward again, she pressed another kiss to his forehead.

“I know, but you don’t have to be afraid of that anymore.  Not ever.” She could only hope her strident tones reassured him, and she let him go, her hands falling away from his face.  The corner of his mouth quirked upwards, ever so slightly, and he still had a thousand questions in his eyes, but the fear had abated somewhat.  “Now, I promised you answers, so. You can have them on our walk back, or, if you want, we can wait until we get home and you can talk to Alistair and me at the same time.  It’s your choice.”

Kieran rubbed at his nose with the back of hand, another lapse in good manners that was surely going to earn her a scolding from Morrigan at some point in the future.  Then he gazed up at the grey sky, his breath steaming in the air, his brows drawing together in thought.

“I think, I think I’d like to talk to both of you at the same time,” he said.  Then he nodded, affirming to himself that was what he wanted. “But can we go home now?  I don’t really want to hunt anything, not right now.”

“Of course.  And you know what?  I don’t either.” And together they walked through the forest under a lightening sky, back to their little seaside house on its hill.

 

* * *

 

With Cait and Kieran out early for their hunt, Alistair was left to his own devices in terms of feeding himself.  That, of course, meant rummaging up whatever was on hand and not being terribly fussy. He would be the first to admit he was no cook, but he could manage to assemble a reasonable breakfast of ham, eggs and toasted bread.  Stoking the fire up a bit more, he had everything at the ready when the door opened. Not expecting Cait and Kieran back so soon, and it being far too early for visitors, Alistair went from contemplating varieties of egg preparation to ready to fight in a heartbeat.  Fire poker in hand, he stood, ready to deal with any intruder.

“Really, Alistair, the fire poker?  Alright, I see your point, and I give.  We can have an extra sword in the house,” Caitwyn said with a wry grin.  He regarded her flatly with one eyebrow raised, but couldn’t maintain it when she had that sly little smile on her lips.  Then he frowned as he noticed the cautious set of her shoulders and the way she held her head, like she was scouting the path ahead.  Though there was a hopeful light in her eyes. Kieran stood just behind her in the doorway, acting strangely shy as he removed his coat and boots, putting them away.

“Well, since neither of you are bleeding or screaming, it wasn’t an injury that interrupted this morning’s hunt.”  He kept his tone dry and leaned the poker back by the fireplace, trying to appear casual, but he hadn’t missed Caitwyn’s signals.

“No, it wasn’t.”  She spoke evenly, but she was so very careful, so very deliberate that it made him cautious, too, by habit.  Cait had always been the first to spot an enemy, the first to notice something off about someone, and she was always quietly controlled when it happened.

“Alright,” he drawled, not sure what was going on, but knowing something was.  Then Caitwyn nudged a nervous Kieran. The boy shook his head, and it was only because he’d known Caitwyn for over a decade that Alistair could see her suppress the urge to sigh and roll her eyes.

“Come on, let’s take a seat,” she said, though it had the undercurrent of an order.  She practically dragged Kieran to the couch, making the boy sit in the middle where he leaned back and watched Alistair out the corner of his eye.  Violet hauled herself up from the pile of her sleeping brothers and sisters to sit at his feet, and that elicited a brief smile from him, making him relax a touch.  “Kieran, go on, it’ll be alright.”

“I don’t know how to start.  I thought I did, but now,” Kieran trailed off, shaking his head.  Alistair sat sideways on the couch, one leg crooked up on the cushions.  There was a short list of options what this all could be about, and Alistair braced for the one he had been, not dreading, but perhaps cautiously anticipating.  At first, he had worried about how dangerous it would be for Kieran to know, but the boy wasn’t one to just spill secrets. No one raised by Morrigan would speak just for the sake of sound.  Then he had been worried that it was history repeating itself all over again, betraying the woman he loved, fathering a child he never saw, that Kieran would hate him with a child’s intense hate for all he’d done and failed to do.  But now, now seeing the boy so wound up for this past week and more, all Alistair wanted was to stop Kieran from hurting anymore. If this was what it took, he’d take the risk.

“You have something you want to ask me, Kieran?” Alistair asked.  Kieran nodded, his hands clasped in his lap, trying to keep still, trying to be older than he was.  Attempting to put the boy at ease Alistair offered a soft smile, and caught Kieran’s eye. “Well, no time like the present.”

Kieran looked at him directly, hazel eyes meeting hazel eyes, but Kieran had several false starts.  He opened his mouth to ask the question only to close it again, visibly discarding what he was about to say.  After a few rounds of this, Kieran inhaled sharply, seemed to gather his courage, and spoke.

“Are you my father?” Kieran asked, a small note of challenge in his voice.  It was as if he dared Alistair to lie, to evade, when Kieran knew the truth already. 

“Yes, I am,” he answered simply, not looking away, for the first time able to tell his son that he was, in fact, his son.  Kieran nodded again, Alistair’s answer confirming what he already knew, but Alistair had a question of his own, one he couldn’t help but ask.  Perhaps it wasn’t fair to ask it of a boy only ten years of age, but he had to ask it all the same. “Is that alright? That I’m your father, I mean?”

“I, I’m not sure,” Kieran began, eyes sliding away, watching the fire dance in the hearth.  Kieran gave the question a moment’s thought, and then turned back to Alistair, expression cautiously hopeful.  “I think maybe, yes? But I have a lot of questions.”

That was when it hit him anew, regret slamming into Alistair’s chest for all the things he had missed.  Kieran’s first word, first steps, the first time he read a book all on his own, all the things Alistair’s own father had never seen, Alistair had not seen either.  Had not been there for. But Kieran didn’t hate him, it seemed, and Alistair wanted nothing more than to hold his own son at the moment. Throat tight and chest aching, Alistair restrained himself to gripping the boy’s shoulder with one hand, his relief surely showing on his face.

“I’m sure you do,” Alistair replied, a relieved puff of breath escaping him.

“What one did you want to start with Kieran?” Caitwyn asked then, her voice gentle.  She sat at the other end of the couch, legs curled underneath her making herself look even smaller than she was, but no less strong for it.  Her strength had seen them both through so much, and as ever she braved the path first, finding the way through. Kieran frowned, mentally parsing out what he wanted to ask, and then took another breath.

“ _ Why _ ?” he asked.  He glanced to them both in turn, and that one word contained a whole host of other questions inside of it.  Alistair looked to Cait, and she met his eyes. He had no idea how to begin to answer that, and he knew it showed on his face.  Caitwyn, however, seemed prepared, and she ducked her head to signal she would try to explain.

“Well, it has to do with being a Warden, and how Wardens end a Blight,” Caitwyn began, drawing Kieran’s attention back to her.  “And this is a closely held secret, Kieran. I’m sure I don’t need to tell you, but it’s better for you if you don’t repeat any of what we’re about to tell you.”

“I understand,” he said, and Alistair knew that he did.  The boy, his son, understood too much. More than he should, and the fault of that was theirs.  Another regret Alistair had not known he had until he’d come to know Kieran.

“The reason Wardens are able to stop Blights is because only a Warden can ensure an Archdeamon’s death is permanent,” Alistair continued.  His stomach clenched at the memory of Riordan’s words, at the sinking feeling of knowing he would lose Caitwyn, one way or another all those years ago, and the iron will to not let her die.  “Unless a Warden kills it, its soul, or essence, or whatever, can move to another Darkspawn, letting the creature reform. But there’s a price.  _ In death, sacrifice _ , it goes.  When a Warden kills an Archdeamon, they both die.”

“How’s that work?”  Kieran’s face scrunched up as he tried to work out how the mechanics of Wardens and Blight and Archdeamon all added up to make sense.  Alistair had never bothered to try, and he hoped Kieran wouldn’t spend too much time on it.

“When the Archdeamon is killed, its soul seeks the closest available vessel.  If a Warden kills it, that Warden is the closest due to the Taint, but because the Warden isn’t an empty vessel like Darkspawn, both the Warden and Archdeamon are destroyed,” Caitwyn explained, demonstrating a better memory of Riordan’s words than Alistair cared to carry around.  It still made him angry, all these years later, the echo of those words, the dread of her death, the willing embrace of his own. Before Morrigan’s offer.

“That… is weird,” Kieran pronounced.

“Very,” Alistair agreed, and then shrugged.  “Well, your mother had a way out for us.”

“ _ A loop in your hole _ , were her exact words to me,” Caitwyn supplied, a small grin on her face to recall it now.

“Now that sounds like Mother,” Kieran said.  Alistair couldn’t help the snort that escaped him, which then make Kieran smile, just a little.

“Anyway,” Caitwyn continued as if that had not happened.  “Her offer was to, hm, perform a ritual, a ritual that would create you to contain and cleanse the soul of the Archdeamon.  But it would require Alistair’s participation.” Alistair tamped down the memory of that night. Though Cait had phrased it as delicately as she could, and he had largely made his peace with the whole damned thing, he still didn’t like remembering it.  But his own discomfort was beside the point, and he refocused on his son.

“So my dreams, those were the old god.”  Kieran’s mirth of moments ago vanished, and he was solemn.  Caitwyn leaned forward, placing her hand over Kieran’s clasped ones, regret and sorrow in the lines of her delicate face.

“Yes, that’s what they were.  And I am sorry, Kieran, so sorry for that, for what those dreams might have done to you.  For what I—we—let happen to you.” This was Caitwyn’s heartache laid bare. Her qualms about the whole mess had been different than his own, but no less real.  Kieran shook his head, shifting and holding her hand between his own.

“It’s alright, I think.  They’re gone now, and, and if you didn’t do that ritual, I wouldn’t be here at all,” he reasoned, and that made even Caitwyn blink, taken aback by Kieran’s turn of logic.

“That’s right, I suppose, and well, you’re here now.”  Alistair spoke slowly, cautiously, testing the waters. “You’re here, and, and I’m grateful that I’ve been able to get to know you.  So grateful. I never thought I’d ever see you, but seeing you, having you here with us, Kieran, it’s more than I could have asked for.”  Kieran watched him with those eyes that sometimes were not those of a boy, eyes that had seen too much, even if it was only in dreams. But eyes that were the same hazel as his own.  That he could acknowledge that now, if only in his own mind, was better than any treasure he’d seen in his life.

“You didn’t love Mother.”  Kieran talked without rancor, but instead with a maturity that he shouldn’t necessarily have.  “When I was little, I’d make up stories, for why my father wasn’t with us, that he had to stay away to protect us, but that he loved us.  Loved me. But you loved Caitwyn, and you didn’t know me.”

“Not then, no, but I know and love you now, s—Kieran,” he said, avoiding the word  _ son _ at the last moment.  He didn’t know what Kieran would prefer at this point, but he knew it was important to defer to the lad.  “And I know that doesn’t make up for all the years I’ve missed, but, I—”

Kieran flung his small body across the couch to wrap his arms around Alistair, burying his face against his chest.  Stunned into silence, Alistair held his son one arm about the boy’s middle the other cradling his head, and Alistair felt tears well in his eyes and run down his face.  He pressed his lips to the top of Kieran’s head, smoothing back his black hair, and felt his heart beat anew in his chest. He was holding his son,  _ his son _ , and he very much did not want to let go.  Then he risked a glance to Caitwyn, not sure what he would see.  There were tears on her cheeks, but they were tears of happiness for him, for the both of them.  Alistair did the only thing he could at the moment, giving her a silent  _ thank you _ , a paltry thing next to what she had done for him, but all he had for her.

He had his son, and it was a wonder.

 

* * *

 

Caitwyn’s heart soared seeing Kieran hug Alistair, the boy finally hearing what he had been hoping to hear, that simple  _ I love you _ , meaning more than all the explanations in the world as to his existence.  And Alistair’s face had been a picture of hope and wonder and joy, to be able to acknowledge his son, to expiate the guilt that had stalked them both for a decade and more.  Her own regrets were not washed away, but they no longer clung to her like a ghoul’s claws, and in time they might finally fade. 

Slowly, as if slightly embarrassed, Kieran disentangled himself from his father, wiping at his eyes, but before he could pull away entirely, Alistair held the boy’s head in his hands and touched his brow to Kieran’s.  A moment between father and son, the touch a gesture that went deeper than words, an apology and a promise both. Then he let his son go, and Kieran glanced at her, as if he were still trying to figure something out. 

“Mother didn’t love Alistair, but she loved  _ you _ ,” Kieran said thoughtfully.  He regarded her as though he was putting together the solution to a puzzle in a slow, unfolding realization.  “You’re her friend, her best friend. She didn’t want you to die either.”

“And I love her.”  The words were easy for her to say, but she wondered where Kieran was taking all of this.  “She was like a sister to me, during the Blight. I think I was the first real friend she ever had.”  Caitwyn was thankful that Kieran couldn’t see Alistair grimace when she described Morrigan as a sister.  He might respect Morrigan, even get along with her to some degree these days, but with the topic of Morrigan’s ritual close at hand, the sisterly description didn’t sit easily alongside it.

“And Alistair loved you.  They both loved you,” Kieran said slowly, as if leading her through his thought process.  She nodded, glancing at Alistair, who could only shrug, having no idea where the boy was going with this.  “They both loved you enough to do something they didn’t want to do to have me.”

“That’s phrasing it politely, but Kieran, what are you getting at?” Alistair asked gently.  Then Kieran smiled brightly, like it should be obvious. 

“I wished that my parents loved each other, and they do!  Caitwyn was the  _ reason _ for me, and if people have children because love, then, then she’s my mother, too, in a way,” Kieran said breathlessly to Alistair.  Then he shifted back to regard her, small body almost vibrating with excitement at his own reasoning. “In the ways that matter, right?  Because you said you love me, and you’ll be there for me, and you love Mother and my father, and they love you, so… I have three parents.  Which is more than most people get!”

Caitwyn felt like she’d been struck between the eyes with a hammer.  Unable to move or speak, she could only breathe shallowly, having never once considered Kieran anything like her child, or that he should have been her child.  He had always been Morrigan’s son, and now Alistair’s too. The whole concept that she was his mother as well had not been one that had crossed her mind. Maybe she’d be something like one of the plethora of aunties she’d had as a child in the Alienage.  But now that Kieran had said it, the idea ran through her like a lightning bolt, a shock to her whole system, and her chest felt too tight, too small for her heart.

Kieran grinned at her, so proud of himself, so pleased at his turn of thought that she had no idea what to do.  Alistair watched her grapple with the idea, and there was nothing but love in his eyes.

“That’s incredibly sweet,” she said through a throat that felt too tight.  “But you don’t have to think of me that way, Kieran. It’s alright, really.”

“No.  You’re my mother, too.  But I can’t call you ‘Mother,’ that would get confusing.  What’s the elven word for mother?” he asked, charging ahead with his new picture of the world, not about to let her half-hearted objections stand in his way.

“ _ Mamae _ ,” she said, the word half-startled out of her by Kieran’s unstoppable enthusiasm.

“ _ Mamae, _ ” he echoed, and his grin grew wider, brighter.  The sulky sullenness of the past week gave way to a thoroughly childish joy, like the night banished by the dawn.  Then he turned to his father, the bewildered expression on Alistair’s face likely a match to her own. “And, I can’t really see you as  _ Father _ .  Would ‘Da’, be alright?  Like what Eridin and Filla call their da.”

“Thank the Maker. ‘Father’ sounds awful.  ‘Da’ is much better.” Alistair’s tone was suddenly light, likely in deference to Kieran’s change of mood, and he gripped the lad’s shoulder again with a distinctly paternal air.  It was plain for her to see how his chest swelled with love and pride at being called ‘Da’, and the world took on a strange soft feeling for them both. Caitwyn knew this was going to require careful handling in the village, this change in their little household, but for the moment she made herself stay in the present instead of rushing to plan how to handle everything that needed to be taken care of. 

“There, good.  It’s all sorted.”  Kieran nodded, clearly satisfied with his rearrangement of the world to his liking.  “Can we have breakfast now, please? I’m hungry.”

“Excellent thinking, Kieran.  I was just about to make myself something when you two came tromping back in.  Could do with a bit of breakfast,” Alistair said brightly, throwing his lot in with his son, a united front of male interest in food.

“Maker’s breath,  _ boys _ , always hungry,” Caitwyn muttered.  Then she drew herself up imperiously, catching the lighter mood.  “Today is a day worthy of pancakes. To the cellar with you both. We need a few extras.”

“Yes,  _ Mamae _ ,” Kieran said in a high, happy voice.  He legged it over the dog at his feet, who got up anyway and followed him, excited by the sudden activity.  Already struggling into his coat, he asked, “Coming, Da?” like it was the most natural thing in the world.

Caitwyn’s heart skipped another beat, and she turned to Alistair.   _ Da _ , she mouthed at him,  _ Mamae _ , he responded in kind, wonder and joy on both their faces.  Then he heaved himself up off the couch. As he passed her, he bent over and tilted her chin up, gracing her lips with a quick kiss, but it still made her sigh.

“I love you,” he said against her lips, and she grinned.

“Love you, too,” she replied, and then nipped at his lip.  “Now go get me some flour.”

“Yes, ma’am!”  His reply was somehow snappy and mocking at the same time, and he threw her a lazy salute as he pulled on his own coat and boots.  “Alright, we better get our commander everything she’s asking for, or there’ll be no living with her.”

“Or worse,  _ no pancakes _ ,” Kieran countered with all the seriousness he could muster. 

“The horror,” Alistair deadpanned, and with a burst of laughter from Kieran they were out the door. 

Caitwyn knelt by the hearth, noting it was still in good order to make breakfast, and she marveled at the shift in her life, in all their lives, a morning could make.  Certainly, Kieran would tell Morrigan about this, and Caitwyn hoped the other woman, the sister of her heart, would understand that Kieran still loved her, but that there were simply more people in his life and his heart now.  And though Caitwyn’s life was a simple village life these days, it kept taking twists and turns she had not expected, and never in all her life had she imagined having a family this way. But now that she had it, she knew she never wanted to let it go.

“We return victorious!” Alistair declared.  His arms were laden with more food than strictly necessary such that Kieran had to hold the door for him, and she laughed at the sight of it.

“Well come on, then, give me a hand,” she said.  Scooting over to give them room, she displaced the dogs, all of them grumbling at being shifted from their warm spot by the fire by all these people. 

“Can I have ham  _ and _ bacon?” Kieran asked.

“I’m so proud of you right now, I can’t stand it,” Alistair teased.

“For that?  Really?” Kieran’s face scrunched up again, this time in playful doubt instead of the isolating, heart-wrenching confusion of the past week.

“You should have figured out by now that his standards are food-based,  _ da’len _ ,” Caitwyn noted dryly, the eleven word tripping off her tongue as it by itself, giving her pause.  The comment earned another bubble of laughter from the boy, but no, he was not just the boy. 

He was her son, in all the ways that mattered.


	10. When I Have Rebuilt My World

“Mother.”  The small voice came from the sending crystal on her worktable, a voice that had once been plaintive with childhood illness, had piped with pride in reporting progress in his studies, a voice she had known better than her own.  A voice she missed more than she once would have thought possible. Morrigan took up the crystal without hesitation, holding it close as she could not hold her son.

“I am here, little man.  Though, ‘tis rather late,” she said, though her tone held no disapproval.  She was still awake, after all, and in her laboratory. The large table was littered with books and spell components, and the room was lit by the ruddy light of the fire and two blue glowlamps.

Worry had gnawed at her when Kieran had not written or drawn a single thing for her in his book this past week and more.  She had told herself that he merely was busy, with friends and study and learning all Caitwyn was surely teaching him about woodscraft. 

To distract herself, she had buried herself in her research to learn more of how to effectively communicate with the spirit of Mythal that resided within her now.  It had been waiting for her upon her return to her rooms. The wisp of what was left of her mother, or whatever she had been, had coalesced around the Eluvian like a tame fog.  There had been no doubt in that moment, when she had allowed the spirit in. Old magics, old lore, it had to be preserved, saved, and the power of Mythal was not to be disregarded out of hand. 

What had happened to Flemeth was still a mystery to Morrigan.  The spirit had been weak from its journey through the Eluvian and its subsequent wait for her return.  There was much she needed to know, to learn, and yet all of that ceased to matter as her son’s voice reached out to her across the leagues and miles that separated them now.

The one thing she did know, was that she had made the right choice to entrust Kieran to Caitwyn.  With Mythal, Morrigan knew that for all the power the spirit might one day afford her, she would be in more danger, danger she could not protect Kieran against.  Caitwyn would keep her son safe. Morrigan trusted to that without question.

“I know it’s late, but a lot happened today, well maybe not a lot a lot, but I learned something today.  I wanted to talk to you about it, but not until  _ Ma­ _ —Caitwyn and Alistair went to bed,” he said.  She noted how his pattern of speech was different now that he was in a village and not the Court of Orlais.  That did not trouble her. What did trouble her was how Kieran was not being direct with her, how he sounded hesitant to speak where he never had before.  Nor did she miss the little stumble over Caitwyn’s name.  _ What _ was going on?

“Speak plainly, Kieran, and all will be well.”  She hoped that reassured her son, that he would not feel the need to hide parts of his life from her now that they were not together.  Kieran inhaled deeply, and then it all poured out of him. The Harvest Festival, the boy Gavin—Morrigan had to exercise an effort of will to keep from blasting her rare books and spell components into cinders on sheer reflex, and instead focused on letting her son speak his piece—and then learning who his father was.  And why.

Morrigan’s heart sank then.  She had not wanted him to know, to think he was anything other than loved.  That he had been given cause to doubt how she felt about him now, it set a fire in her chest.  She was  _ not _ Flemeth, to have raised her son only to have him feel used and constrained by a woman who called herself his mother but was the furthest thing from all that a mother  _ should _ be.

“I know, I know why you didn’t tell me, Mother, and I’m not mad.  Not at anyone,” Kieran continued. His childish voice was at odds with the clear-eyed understanding of those words, and she ached to hold him. 

“I am sorry, my son.  For having to learn of such things in the way you have.  I never wished for you—”

“It’s alright, Mother.  Really. There’s more, though, and it’s important, and I really hope, well.  I hope it doesn’t make you upset.” Her son, her clever, sweet son, had pulled together a family out of the ashes of the truth of his existence, a father he had wished to know, and the woman who was the reason for him.  It was more than she would have been able to do, more than anyone should have done, but he had gazed upon the matter with eyes older than his ten years to find a deeper truth. A truth Morrigan had struggled with, years ago.

Morrigan loved her friend, her first and best friend, the woman who had trusted Morrigan with her secrets and her pain before anyone else, and who had done more for Morrigan in a single year than Flemeth had done over the course of her life.  The woman who Morrigan had thought of when Kieran had been small and fussy and she had no idea what to do, the woman who had served as a better example of a carer than her own mother, the woman who had always been with Morrigan and Kieran in spirit if not in actuality. 

Kieran had seen what Morrigan had not, not in all the years since his birth.  That Kieran had always been  _ their _ son, the son of her body born for the love of her friend.  Love had always been a part of him, and a tender smile tugged at her lips. 

“I assume, then, your  _ mamae _ is going to handle things in that little village?” Morrigan asked, giving her friend the appellation she had earned long ago.  Blinking rapidly, Morrigan was resolutely not crying, nothing so saccharine as that, but her throat was tight and it thickened her speech.

“Yeah, she and Da are going in to talk to Mayor Neam and Mother Ostryd tomorrow morning.   _ Mamae _ said something about finding the right story, and Da said that I shouldn’t worry.   _ Mamae _ always figures something out.”  Resting her head on her arms, Morrigan listened to Kieran’s relaxed patter.  How happy he sounded, and it soothed her to know that he was with those who cared for him nearly as much as she did.  No, she amended, as much. Just as much.

“She does at that,” Morrigan confirmed.

“Mother?”

“Yes, my son?”

“I love you.”   The words nestled into Morrigan’s chest, and her fingers gripped the sending crystal tightly. 

“I love you, my little man,” she told him, putting all she could of that in her voice.  Then she cleared her throat. “And now, you should get to sleep.” Morrigan could have sworn she heard Kieran smile at that.

“Yes, Mother.  Good night, Mother.”  His tone was dutiful and teasing at the same time, and even Morrigan had to admit he got  _ that _ from his father.  Well, he had his father now, and his  _ mamae _ , and her.  He would always have her, no matter how distant they might be. 

“Good night, my son,” she whispered, and watched as the crystal’s glow pulsed weaker and weaker until it was once again a dull, red stone.  Morrigan regarded the crystal for a moment and let it go to survey her books, the table, her workroom with bright yellow eyes in the combined fire and glow light. 

What the future held for her, Morrigan did not know.  Mythal was currently quiescent, but someone had forced Flemeth to send the spirit on.  An unknown enemy awaited her, and she would not become prey, not to anything. However, she knew what Kieran’s future held.  Her son would grow up in a home not moving from place to place any more, the only dangers those of normal village life, not old gods and ancient elven mages.   He would grow into a fine man, of that she had no doubt. He would be better than her, a kind soul who did not feel that thorns and barbs were necessary to keep the world at bay.

After all, he was growing up loved, and she had been able to give him that.  All she had never known. It was what mothers did for their children.

 

* * *

 

Caitwyn sat stiffly in the hard chair opposite Mother Ostryd in her small, spare office, just off the nave of the Chantry, the early morning light streaming in through one, small circular window.  The Revered Mother was a tall, thin woman, roughly of an age with Lunete, who might have been generously called handsome once upon a time, with piercing blue eyes that likely could bore through stone.  Eyes that currently considered Caitwyn and Alistair like they were specimens to study, weighing them and measuring them by some internal standard. Meanwhile, the plump mayor bustled about with apparent ease, pouring them all tea as though she were in her own home.

They had spent yesterday together as a family at the house, Caitwyn mentally going over her options, and she knew that waiting longer wouldn’t make it any better.  This morning, she and Alistair had made the trek, leaving Kieran safely under the watchful eyes of seven half-grown Mabari pups. Caitwyn had thought it best to get the hard part over with, to ensure that the change in their family would be accepted in the village, after Kieran had been introduced as the son of an old friend.  She and Alistair both wanted him to have the family he wished, and that included being able to call them  _ Da _ and  _ Mamae _ without causing vicious whispers and worse rumors that could come back to haunt them. 

Their best chance would be in having the mayor and the Revered Mother on their side, to quell the spiteful rumors that had changed their lives in the first place.  That, and to smooth the transition in how they were seen by the villagers. While Caitwyn knew they already had Lunete’s support, and that had bought them some time, Mother Ostryd spoke with the authority of the Chantry.  That held sway in a place like Devon-by-Sea. Such was the life of village politics, she thought wryly. Somehow just as serious as thrones and kings and nations, the details of a little life.

“There you are, my dears.”  Lunete cheerfully handed Caitwyn then Alistair each a fine old cup and saucer, full to the brim of a pale brew.  The mayor then sat in the only comfortable chair in the room, upholstered with plush, red fabric, her round, wrinkled face split in a cheery grin, as if she were blissfully ignorant of the tension in the air after Caitwyn had laid it out for the two women.  At a loss for what else to say, in the wake of the revelation she had handed down, Caitwyn took a sip of tea.

“Thank you, Mayor Neam,” Alistair said, falling back on the manners he had learned as a boy in the Chantry.  “For seeing us, and the tea.”

“You’re most welcome, Alistair.”  Lunete beamed at him while Mother Ostryd said nothing, her eyes trained on them like a hunting hawk’s.  Caitwyn met the old woman’s gaze, weighty with judgment. For all that Caitwyn had faced horrors beyond the imagination of most people she had never been as intimidated as she was in this moment, because it wasn’t just her life in the balance.  Kieran,  _ their  _ son, needed them to face this down and make the village a good place for him to be.  Gathering her courage, she set the cup and saucer down on the small, rickety wooden table and sat up straight, betraying none of the anxiety she felt running through her like wild dogs.

“Kieran was hurt that night, at the Festival.  I don’t want him hurt again.” Caitwyn tried to strike a tone between parental authority and deference to those who held real sway in this village.  She would do this for Kieran. This would work. It had to.

“Is that so?” Mother Ostryd challenged, pursing her thin lips.  “Hurt is a part of life, girl. You can’t protect him from everything.”

“No, we can’t,” Caitwyn agreed, giving the woman that much ground.  She tried to decide how to make the conversation shift in a way she wanted it to go, how to get a handle on a woman who seemed to have no levers.   _ Everyone _ had levers.  Maker, was she out of practice?  Then beside her Alistair shifted, leaning forward, forearms resting on his legs.

“This isn’t the usual situation.  It… it was near the end of the Blight, when it all happened.”  Alistair hedged around the truth, and that made both women sit up and take notice.  In their eyes, she could see they clearly remembered what that time had been like. At hope’s end, death choking the land, the summer heat turned into a stifling mask; it had seemed the end of days.

“That’s how we met, Alistair, Morrigan, and myself.  We were trying to survive.” Caitwyn jumped in, before Alistair could say more.  It had been one thing to tell Kieran, to tell their son all he needed to know so he could understand.  No one else needed  _ that _ story, but they needed something that would do.  “At the end, well. Then Morrigan left, and we stayed, Alistair and I.  And we stayed together.”

She knew how that sounded, or how it would sound.  Alistair knew too, by the frustrated twitch in his eye and the frown tugging down on the corners of his mouth.  A Blight broke the world, and it broke other things along the way: people, minds, rules. The implication she suggested would be easier to for others to accept.  Caitwyn watched as Lunete and Mother Ostryd digested the information, coming to their own conclusions, both older women aware that was all of the story they were getting.  It would be enough. Or so she hoped. 

“I didn’t meet Kieran until he was eight, and Alistair only this last year,” Caitwyn continued, tension thrumming along her shoulders, her arms.  She wished she had something in her hands, if only to keep her fingers occupied. Instead, she forced herself to stillness. “And until now, he’s not known.  It was his mother’s wish he not know. Wasn’t to us to go against that. Not until he needed to know.”

“And now all he needs to know is that we’re his parents.  We’re supposed to protect him from what we can, from what he isn’t ready to handle yet,” Alistair said seriously.  His hazel eyes met Mother Ostryd’s blue and did not flinch. Alistair was content to go where others led, save in one arena.  He would forever stand between people he loved and harm, he would always fight for those who he had taken to his heart, and now was no different.  Years ago he had fought for her, now he fought for his son, and he wasn’t fighting alone.

“And we are not going to give up the home we’ve made here, not without a fight.  It’s the most stable home he’s had in years, and he shouldn’t be afraid here, at least not because our family is a bit different,” Caitwyn told the older women, feeling like she was in a fight in truth now.  Once again standing shoulder to shoulder with Alistair, facing down whatever came at them to protect each other. Never mind that typically he charged at the enemy while she circled around and picked them off.  They had always worked together, and nothing about that had changed.

“What family isn’t different?” Mayor Neam commented under her breath, but Caitwyn watched the Revered Mother.  She smiled. It wasn’t a pleased or happy smile, but a smugly satisfied one.

“Well said, the both of you,” Mother Ostryd said, staring down her long nose at them.  A spark of satisfied pride flickered across the woman’s sharp features, and Caitwyn’s eyes narrowed.

“You were testing us,” Caitwyn accused, her accent making her words clipped.  The older woman’s grin turned sharp.

“Everything is a test.”  The Reverend Mother spared them one last evaluative glare, and then took a sip of her tea as if she was finally satisfied with what she saw.

“And you both did well.”  Lunete’s chipper assurance did little to curb Caitwyn’s indignant ire at the whole set up.  She might understand  _ why _ they had just been put through this little performance, but understanding never entailed liking.  Then the mayor patted Caitwyn’s knee with a conciliatory air and bustled while sitting perfectly still.  Then she took a sip of tea, as if drawing out the moment before speaking again. “We were hoping you would, because we have an offer for you.  Well, for you, Alistair.” 

Caitwyn glanced to Alistair, and she saw that he was darkly unsurprised, his brows drawn down in cautious wariness.  

“What is it you want of us?  What’s the price?” Caitwyn asked, keeping her tone even, her face expressionless.  Silence filled the small office for a moment, and she could hear the children in the nave at their lesson, the enthusiastic voice of Sister Tannis carrying over their smaller ones.

Then Mother Ostryd let out a bark of laughter.

“If I weren’t so kind, I’d be offended,” Mother Ostryd said.  Caitwyn snorted her disbelief, which made the old woman’s grin turn sharp enough to cut through the air itself.  A less warm and affectionate Chantry Mother, Caitwyn had never seen, at least not outside of the political side of the organization.  “No, this isn’t the price of our assistance. You’re willing to fight for your family, the rest isn’t my concern. We’ll see to it that naught comes of the boy claiming you as parents.”

“Then what’s the offer?”  Caitwyn felt the situation quickly falling away from her grasp.  They had not precisely discussed what kind of help the two old women would provide, or the story that they would use to smooth everything offer.  Instead, they clearly had an agenda of their own, which she had not anticipated, though she really, really should have. Being lulled into complacency by the slow pace of village life was not something she could afford.

“We’d like Alistair to be sheriff, a watchman for the village,” Mayor Neam said with her usual cheer before taking another sip of tea.

“What happened to your son, that happens when certain things are left unchecked, when people think they can get away with cruelty,” Mother Ostryd told them in clipped tones.  Her lips curled in simmering anger, and her thin fingers curled like claws around the delicate teacup she held. “The world is darker than it was, and it spreads, like a disease.  It’s come even here, and I’ll not tolerate it.”

“Why me?” Alistair asked, though not plaintively.  The question was pointed, as it would not have been when he was twenty, but his movements gave away his unease.  He glanced from Lunete to Mother Ostryd, while leaning back in his chair and crossing his arms over his chest. His right leg bounced up and down absently, and Caitwyn wanted to put her hand on his knee to curb the obvious display of his discomfort with the notion.

“You were an armsman up north, you said.”  Lunete’s eyes twinkled as she repeated what they had hold her when they had first arrived in the village, because they all well knew that wasn’t the entire truth.  She continued as if the truth was less important, however, laying out the offer for them, which was the heart of the matter at hand. “This village needs someone who can sort people out if they get too rowdy down the pub, keep an eye on strangers passing through, to keep things from going wrong, or to keep the peace when things do go wrong.  Someone with a level head in addition to a strong sword arm.”

“Right, so why bring it up now, then?  Could’ve asked me any time before now, but you didn’t.  And I’m hardly the only person like that around here. Surely there’s someone who’s from here, with a known reputation, who would be better,” Alistair insisted, pressing them on the point, and not able to hide his suspicion. 

“You think so, boy?” Mother Ostryd challenged, one white eyebrow raised with just a touch of arch victory.  “True, a few men here know which end of a sword is which, but they’re old men now, soldiers from Maric’s day.  Paedrick would have been right for the job, were he twenty years younger and didn’t have the pub. Jharon’s a smith, not a peacekeeper, and Dalish besides.  We live and let live here, true, but some things might push certain folk too far. Not the point, that. We didn’t know what kind of man you were, until now, until here.  You put the boy first. That’s what this village needs right now, putting others first.”

“Also, dear, you clearly need employment,” Lunete added innocently.

“Hey!”  Alistair’s voice rose with indignation, and then he breathed out sharply.  “That’s probably fair, but still. What do you think?” He turned to Cait with his question, uncertainty in his eyes.  It would be drawing attention to themselves, but it could also be a form of safety. If Alistair became a known fixture in Devon-by-Sea, they would be less out of place, they would be hidden by being a part of something, lost amongst the grass and weeds, as it were.

Leliana had talked about such a method of concealment, cloaking one’s self in plain sight.  It had merit, perhaps, here. Not to mention that Alistair really did need something else to do, considering he was no farmer or fisherman, and that he was threatening to get underfoot when winter came around.

“I think it’s your choice,” she told him, gripping his strong, scarred hand with her slim fingers.  “And I’ll support it, whatever you decide.” He let a puff of breath escape him. It was down to him and what he wanted to do with his days.  Because they certainly had a whole life of days to fill up now. The same thought must have struck him, because his mouth stretched into that crooked smile, his eyes crinkling with delight.  Shifting his shoulders, as if anticipating wearing even padded armor again, he sat up straight and regarded the older women, one smiling and bright, the other cooler and evaluative.

“Alright, I guess I’m your new sheriff.  I suppose this is a ‘bring your own weapons’ kind of employment, yes?” he asked dryly, eliciting a chuckle from Mayor Neam.

“I told you he was a good boy, Ostryd,” the plump woman said, nudging Mother Ostryd in the side.  The leaner woman spared her old friend a quelling look, which accomplished exactly nothing in curbing Lunete’s sunny demeanor.  While Alistair let the appellation of ‘good boy’ pass by without comment, Caitwyn felt that there was an important point that could not be overlooked, something she had always thought too many people did.

“No, he’s a good man,” she corrected, her hand resting on his shoulder with no small measure of proprietary pride.  A good man, the best man she had ever known, and he graced her with a slow, loving smile, one which she returned. She no longer felt the need to hide how she felt about him in front of other people.  Not here, at least, their past as Wardens further behind them every day.

“That, too,” Mother Ostryd said, determined to get in the last word on any given subject.  Caitwyn let her have it, and then they got down to the business of making sure Kieran could have the family he wanted.

 

* * *

 

Caitwyn helped Kieran into his coat.  It was silly. He was ten, and he could get into a coat by himself, but he let her assist him regardless.  She hadn’t been able to stop herself, putting extra bacon on his plate, letting him have more honey than usual.  The worry coiled behind her breastbone like a snake, worry that Kieran’s first day back at his lessons would see him facing the same vitriol he had the night of the Harvest Festival.  Vitriol made worse by having to reveal to the village that theirs was not a conventional family.

Lunete Neam might be content to let people go about their lives so long no one was getting hurt, but not everyone saw life that way.  Certainly not everyone in this little village.

Yesterday they had come back from the village and gone over the story about their little family that Mayor Neam and Mother Ostryd had put about.  Kieran’s discomfort had been clear, from the way he shifted his shoulders and squirmed under the weight of a necessary lie. He understood that the truth wasn’t something the villagers could or would accept, but she could see it sit uneasily on him.  Kieran’s uncertainty was a trigger for her own, like a spring trap closing around her, squeezing her heart. 

There was so much outside of her control.  The villager’s reactions, how Kieran’s friends would treat him, what that Gavin boy might do, or worse, his father.  Too much she couldn’t account for, and she had to send her son back out there to face it. 

“There you are.”  Caitwyn’s voice sounded brittle to her own ears, and she tried to smile for Kieran.  The ruddy fire and lamp light made the house cozy and warm and safe. Maybe she shouldn’t let him go.  Maybe he should stay with her, one more day of hunting and mushrooming before sending him back. But that wouldn’t be right.  She had to let him go, though she couldn't help but ask questions that would give him a way out, if he wanted. “Are you ready for your first day back?  Do you have everything?”

“ _ Mamae _ , I’ll be alright.  I’ll have Violet with me,” he said, patting Violet who stood ready at his side.  The half-grown Mabari would be at his side at all times now. Caitwyn had insisted on that, and she hoped that would deter anyone who thought Kieran was a target to be attacked.  He was trying so hard to be brave  _ for her _ , with his shoulders back and head held high, that she restricted herself to only smoothing back his hair.  It was always a bit messy when he woke up, and he sometimes forgot to comb it down.

“I know, I know,” she sighed.  She was being completely ridiculous.  Andraste’s blood, she had faced an _Archdeamon_.  Surely she could send out one boy to his lessons.  But he wasn’t just _one boy_.  He was her son, _their_ _son_ , to protect and love.  And he had too much on his mind already, so she would do what she could to lift some of the burden from him.  Taking his hands in her own, she held Kieran’s gaze for a moment longer. “I just want you to know you don’t need to fight any battles for us, Kieran, not for me or your Da, no matter what anyone says to you.”

“I’ll remember, I promise.”  At his assurances, she grabbed his face and kissed his cheek, one last gesture before he ventured outside of her direct care.  She ignored the tightness in her chest and made herself step back to let him go. Threading her fingers together to keep from brushing some imaginary lint off his heavy, woolen cloak, she remembered how her father had always tried to hold her close, how he had checked and double-checked that she would have all she needed every time she left their small, rickety home.  No matter how little they had, Papa had always made sure she had enough.

The memory drew a darkly amused huff from her, and she muttered, “Maker help me, I’m turning into my father.”

“Worse things to be, love,” Alistair said, his gentle voice breaking into her thoughts.  She stood on tiptoe as Alistair leaned over, and she gave him a quick goodbye peck on the lips.  Kieran rather obviously turned his back, but not before she caught the way his tongue stuck out or how his nose crinkled in disgust.  Now that he considered them his parents, all displays of affection had been promptly declared  _ gross _ , and she was sure she and Alistair would find that amusing later.  At the moment, however, she didn’t want to push it.

“I suppose.  Now both of you get out of here, or you’ll be late.”  She swatted Alistair playfully on his bum, and she thought that might just be a fun perk of him going off to work every day.  As anxious as she was for Kieran, she was hardly worried about Alistair’s new job. That he had a job would probably continue to amuse her for days.  Weeks even. But it was good to see him with something of his own to do, not to mention keeping him out from under her feet around the house as winter set in.  As much as she loved him, there was such a thing as too much togetherness.

“Yes, love,” Alistair said, just as Kieran spoke, “Yes,  _ Mamae _ .”   Then they were out the door, Violet trotting down the steps ahead of them into the crisp late autumn morning.  Caitwyn watched them from the doorway, walking under the newly risen sun as it stained the edges of the sky and sea pink, forcing the black night to retreat.  The song birds had flown away, but the gulls and ravens would stay through the winter, and their harsh cries carried on the wind above the sound of their booted feet crunching on the frosted-over dirt path.

There they were, her boys, the love of her life and the son of her heart, and her breathing hitched at the sight.  She should close the door, keep the heat from escaping the house entirely, she should go about her chores and check her traps and keep the house on track to be winter-ready.  But she lingered, holding onto them for just a little bit longer until they dipped out of sight.

Oak wuffed beside her, his heavy body leaning against her legs, and she scratched him behind the ears.  She glanced back into the house to see the other dogs heaving themselves up from the warm hearth stones, and there was another thing to consider.

She really did need to rehome the other pups, and before they were fully grown, too.

“Alright, you mongrels, let’s get to work.”

 

* * *

 

“Da, does she know that  _ she’s _ the reason we might be late?” Kieran asked, his voice steaming in the air as they walked.  Da snickered, his shoulders shaking with the effort to keep from breaking into a full laugh.

“Yes, but you were smart not to point that out to her.  Come on, we’ve got to get a move on,” Da said, lengthening his stride though not by much.  Kieran trotted to keep up, and he thought it strange to see Da in armor again, even though he had been wearing it when they first met.  Da had removed all the Warden insignia as a matter of course, and then taken the armor itself down just the brigandine and tabard, leaving off the heavier elements.  With a simple sword in a scabbard on his hip, Da did look somewhat like a former armsman, someone who had been allowed to keep the armor their lord had issued to them. 

Before long they came within sight of the low, dilapidated stone wall that separated the village proper from the surrounding area.  Da slowed up a touch, and he put a gloved hand on Kieran’s shoulder. Violet trotted a short distance ahead, taking a few moments to notice that her person wasn’t walking quite so quickly anymore and was thus out of patting range.

“Kieran, you know if anyone does  _ anything _ ,” Da began to say, and Kieran’s sigh stopped the next words.  Making sure he didn’t roll his eyes, because  _ Mamae _ and Da had told him this over and over, he repeated the instructions they’d given him.

“I get someone I know.  Paedrick, or Sister Tannis, or someone if I can’t find you, and I don’t fight unless I have to.”  He didn’t think he could really fight all that well, anyway. Da had only been teaching him for just over a week, and they had only used wooden practice staves for the first time yesterday.  Then Da stopped, holding Kieran by the shoulders, and Kieran raised his head to see that Da had his serious face on.

“I know this is hard, Kieran.  I know this kind of thing, well, it can be hard.   But you aren’t alone, son.” Da was even using his serious tone, too, and that made Kieran take what Da was saying to heart.   _ Not alone _ .  Not alone had once meant him and Mother, but now it meant Mother and  _ Mamae _ and Da and all his friends and all their parents and the Chantry Sisters and everyone who  _ cared _ .  It made his heart feel bigger than his chest, and he thought it was the best feeling in the whole world, feeling not alone.

“I know, Da,” Kieran said, leaning forward and hugging his father.  For years he had wondered about his father, though he’d never felt the lack of the man in his life.  But being able to hug his father was still new enough to Kieran that he didn’t pull away quickly, like Dyfan and Eiridin did with their fathers.  Then Violet nudged his hand with her head, because he had stopped idly patting her while Da talked, and he realized he had left out Violet. Not alone meant Violet, too.

“Good, then I’ll see you when lessons are over.  Walking you back home, just after your first day,” Da said, and Kieran knew better than to get upset about that.  even though he had friends and Sister Tannis liked him, there was still a worm of fear in his belly that something would go wrong, and he’d be alone.  Again.

He hadn’t known how lonely he was until he had friends.

Then they were at the doors to the Chantry, not nearly as imposing like the ones at the Grand Cathedral in Val Royeaux.  Then again, nothing was like  _ those _ doors.  But these felt more imposing, all the same.  Drawing in a breath, Kieran wrenched open the door, saying good-bye to Da over his shoulder, like he wasn’t afraid, and went inside.

 

* * *

 

Alistair watched as the door to the Chantry shut behind Kieran, and he let out a relieved sigh.  It wouldn’t be easy on the boy, small village life being what it was, but Alistair felt confident that Kieran could handle it.  He was a rather self-possessed boy, when he came down to it, and Alistair was proud of how he was braving everything that life had thrown at him. 

Thinking on that, on the changes a day could make, Alistair checked his sword in his scabbard and started to make his rounds.  First day of honest-to-Maker employment, well, since leaving the Wardens. That, likely, didn’t really count as employment either, which all things considered had been more like a vocation.  Whatever it was, he was supposed to make some rounds, or something like that. Be visible, make people feel safe, that sort of thing.

So, he made rounds, checking down by the docks, listening to the complaints of the fishermen, though the one about the fishermen from the village to the south might bear looking into.  If those men were taking over local fishing spots, it might come to a bit of bad blood, and heading that off would be important. Then he wended his way up through the village, aiding the occasional overburdened person with their goods, and other general helpfulness.

He thought about how much he had missed this as he continued to walk away from the water’s edge, just helping people, doing the right thing, even if it was something small, it was something that someone needed.  He headed to the plots of farmland to the west of the village, which though they were not large, managed to sustain the locals well enough. Some farms were in better repair than others. The Renold farm, where the Harvest Festival took place every year, for instance, looked like a farm out of a picture book.

“Alistair!” a voice called out, and he turned to see Kennard Simmel, Eridin and Filla’s father, waving him over from the fence line.  Alistair trotted over the fallow field, boots crunching on the frost-crusted dirt. “Word’s gone out, and ha! Didn’t expect to see you in all that get up so quick.  You really were an armsman, then?”

“Hm, I suppose that was in doubt,” Alistair allowed, and the two men clasped forearms by way of greeting.  “Everything quiet here, I assume. They’re grumbling down at the docks, but I imagine winter’s a slow time for you.”

“Goes to show you never were a farmer, not for a single day of your life,” Kennard grumbled, but there was no malice behind it.  “Winter is a hard time for livestock, and we have to keep an eye on our grain stores, make choices about the spring planting, and oh yes, my wife’s daily list of chores.  Let us never forget that. I suppose you get out of a fair few chores, now that you’re our sheriff, eh?”

“Honestly, I think Cait likes having me out from underfoot.  She can be particular about some things, and well, I’m not,” Alistair said, tossing the man a self-deprecating grin, which earned him a chuckle. 

“Considering you’re with a knife-ear in the first place, yeah, you ain’t particular at all, are you?” a voice grumbled from behind him.  Kennard’s eyes narrowed, and Alistair turned around to see Hendyr Alrect, father to that Gavin boy, and all around general awful man from what Alistair had been told.  There were a few like that everywhere, down on luck, down on life, and down on anyone they thought they could bully.

“Now see here Hendyr, you’re on my land,” Kennard warned, the farmer’s broad shoulders bunching in preparation of a fight. 

“Not on your land, Kennard.”  Hendyr’s sneered and tapped his feet on the dirt track that cut between the properties.  “And I ain’t done nothing our new sheriff here,” a gob of spit landed at Alistair’s feet, “has a right to do anything about.”

“He’s right Kennard, can’t do anything about what you say, Hendyr.”  Alistair kept his tone light, though his hands reflexively curled into fists.   _ Knife-ear _ was probably the kindest thing the man would say about Cait, but he knew better than to throw the first punch here.  If Hendyr wanted a fight, he’d have to work for it.

“That’s right, you’re not so high and mighty.  You come here, what six months ago? Think you’re better than us, and you’re walking around, big man with a sword and armor?” Hendyr growled.  Alistair could smell the alcohol on the man’s breath from where he stood, and he knew there was no getting out of this with a joke and a smile.

“Don’t think I’m better than anyone,” Alistair said slowly, but the words didn’t matter.  Regardless of what he said, it wouldn’t matter to Hendyr, a man determined to hate him. There was no real reason, not that Alistair could see, other than that some men just had a fight in them with no way to direct it.  It made anyone near them a target, and that current target was Alistair. That didn’t bother him. He could handle himself against a drunk farmer on a bad day, even without his Warden abilities.

“No, no you’re not, and one of these days you, your whore, and that boy of yours are going to figure that out.  The hard way,” Hendyr threatened, and a burning anger flared in Alistair’s chest. His eyes went flat, and with two quick strides he closed the distance between them.  The sudden movement startled the belligerent farmer, and he tried to back away only to trip over his own feet and fall hard on his backside.

“You saw!” Hendyr called out, but Kennard snorted dismissively and spat.  Alistair didn’t take his eyes off the man, staring down at the bastard with barely suppressed rage.  A man could come at him and Alistair wouldn’t hold a grudge, but Maker help the man that came after his family.  After the woman he loved. After his son. In spite of the cool day, Alistair felt like he was on fire, but he held onto his temper.  Barely.

“I saw you trip over your own feet, you drunk,” Kennard retorted dryly.  “Better get yourself home before our sheriff thinks he should help you there.”

“Wouldn’t want you getting hurt, Hendyr.  Job’s to keep people safe,” Alistair said evenly.  He tried to ignore the weight of his sword at his side, the instinct to hurt whatever was trying to hurt him.  The Wardens had tried to take Caitwyn away from him, had tried to break him and reduce him to nothing, and he wouldn’t let that happen again.  Couldn’t. With a near physical wrench, Alistair tamped down his anger, and tried to act like he bloody well should. He held out his hand, and Hendyr raised bloodshot eyes to his, fear flickering across his face for a moment to be replaced with shame-fueled rage.  Slapping away Alistair’s hand, Hendyr picked himself up off the partially frozen ground, and stumbled away.

“High and mighty, you’ll see.  You’ll see, get what’s coming,” he muttered as he backed up further, his eyes hard and vicious, like a rat’s.  Alistair stood his ground, and watched the man take the path down to his home. The anger began to abate, and Alistair breathed out slowly.   _ Maker _ , but he couldn’t react like that again.  He had a job, a whole community to look after, and he couldn’t let this kind of thing get away from him.  Cait had done this, once. He could talk to her about how she did it, mediating instead of kicking people up the backside.

And she’d need to know about the threats.  They needed to have a plan just in case Hendyr got his friends whipped up in a drunken rage to make good on his bluster.

“Good to know that village life is everything they said it was, neighbors looking out for you, and everyone banding together,” Alistair drawled, though he couldn’t disguise the tremor in his hand.  Kennard was kind enough not to look like he noticed, though the farmer frowned after the retreating figure of Hendyr. 

“I wouldn’t make light of that Alistair.  Hendyr’s a drunk, but he’s mean, mean to the bone, and he’s decided to hate you.”  Kennard’s level look only reinforced the importance of Cait knowing about this. She would be angry, but she’d be that much angrier if he kept it from her.  Though he had the inkling that their home was about to be covered in traps.

He really did not want to have to disable traps to just enter his own home.

“Can’t for the life of me imagine why,” Alistair replied, putting on an expression of forlorn despair.  The held up his hands to ward off Kennard’s frustrated glower. “I know, I know. Don’t worry, I’ll be careful.”

“Good, you’ve got a family to protect.  It’s a man’s job, that.”

“Yes, I suppose so.”

 

* * *

 

Kieran sat next to Eridin and Filla on the floor, curled up on one of the cushions that Sister Tannis had acquired to keep her students from having to sit directly on the cold stone floor.  The Chantry had a chill to it with winter coming on, and they all still wore their coats. Violet was pressed to his side, however, and her warm bulk was comforting.

“What’re you doing, Kieran?” Filla asked him.  She leaned over from the book she had been reading, peering at his sketch pad, dark hair spilling over her shoulder.  He almost hid what he was drawing, but he looked up at his friend, her large dark eyes only curious. Silently, and feeling awkward and uncertain, he nudged the paper at her.  She turned it around so it was right side up for her, and she took a long time examining it. Wondering if he had made a bad picture, he started to squirm, then she smiled.

“That’s your house, isn’t it?” she asked.  He nodded, dreading what she might say, then she smiled. “It’s really good.”

“Thank you!”  At her praise a little knot of worry wobbled loose in his chest, and he took the paper back from her.  “It’s not finished. I wanted to color it, but I don’t have any colors or paints or anything.”

“Maybe you’ll get some for Feastday.  I’m sure your Da and  _ Mamae _ have seen what you’ve made,” Terje suggested.  She stood next to Kieran’s shoulder, examining his drawing, too.

“They haven’t,” he replied, feeling the heat in his cheeks.  He didn’t show his drawings to anyone. Or at least Mother had told him not to when he drew what he had been dreaming.  But the dreams were gone now, and he could draw what he felt like. Now he felt like drawing the house he lived in, though he wasn’t quite sure why.

“Could you draw something for me?” Dyfan scooted across the floor, face split in an excited grin, and draped himself over Kieran’s shoulders.

“Like what?” Kieran asked.  He slipped the drawing of the house underneath a fresh piece of paper and toyed with a pencil in his fingers.  Dyfan sat upright and waved his hands, almost like he was flapping, and his friend’s excitement made Kieran smile and feel a little less worried about everything that had happened since the Harvest Festival.

“Me, on a dragon!  With a really big sword, and, and, you know, looking like a hero.”  Dyfan’s chest puffed out, and his dark eyes gazed into the distance as he imagined himself a rider of dragons.

“That’s dumb,” Filla pronounced, but Eridin nudged his twin.

“No, it’s not,” Eridin countered, “I think it’s great!  Though, I want me with my dog, because we’re all gonna get them soon, right, Kieran?  Your  _ mamae _ ’s gonna say their training is done, and we all get a dog, that’s what she said.”

“Our  _ parents _ are getting the dogs, Eri, we’re just supposed to look after them,” Filla said primly, and the familiar banter of the twins made him smile.

“That’s right,” Kieran confirmed.  “But Mabari are special, and they like who they like.  So your parents own the dogs, but the dogs are bonded to each of you.”

“So that means you’re both right,” Terje said, trying to make peace between brother and sister.  It worked like it always did because Filla and Terje were best friends and because Eridin had a really big crush on the dwarf girl.

“Great, everyone’s right, so what about it, a dragon?” Dyfan urged, eyes wide and hopeful, and it made Kieran laugh.

“Alright, alright, let me think,” he said, brow furrowing in concentration,as he tried to recall books on dragons at Skyhold.  He had liked reading them, and one day the big qunari, The Iron Bull, had seen him reading it told him all about the dragons he and the Inquisitor had fought.  Kieran had liked that afternoon, pouring over the brightly colored illustrations, The Iron Bull talking about how some parts of the book were wrong, because the dragon didn’t do what the book said it did.  Or it did something else.

Drawing for his friends that afternoon, some of the worries that knotted his mind become less knotty.  He had friends.  _ Friends _ .  Friends who didn’t care why he had a Mother, a Da, and a  _ Mamae _ , friends who wanted to see all his drawings, and who liked his dog, and who had made sure to see him when he had stayed up at the house.  Then the light outside the Chantry began to fade, no longer good for drawing, and his friends had to leave. First Eridin and Filla left, back to their parent’s farm.  Then Dyfan, who had clean up chores in the smithy, and then, finally, Terje, who had to get home to help her mother with dinner.

Kieran was alone, then.  Mother Ostryd was out, as she often was, tending to anyone who needed it, Sister Tannis ordered to follow and learn instead of stay and teach today.  That left Kieran sitting by himself, his feet just shy of touching the floor as he sat waiting in one of the pews, Violet at attention next to him. Then one of the side doors opened, and Kieran sat up to gather his things, hoping it was Da to come get him only to be disappointed.  It was only Sister Wilemina. 

It wasn’t that Kieran didn’t like the older Sister.  She was very kind and sweet, but in a slow way. Sister Tannis was clever and bright, and would likely be the next Revered Mother, or be sent to her tend her own congregation.  But Sister Wilemina would be a Sister forever. When she noticed he was sitting alone, however, she crossed the nave and looked at him with a concerned expression on her round face.

“Are you alright, Kieran?  Do you need anything?” she asked, and Kieran shook his head.

“No, but thank you, Sister.  I’m just waiting for my da.  _ Mamae _ says I’m not allowed to walk home by myself yet, because it gets dark so fast, and that Violet isn’t trained enough,” he explained in a rush, the words tripping out of him.

“I see,” Sister Wilemina said thoughtfully.  “Well, would you mind if I sat with you? I don’t know when Mother Ostryd and Sister Tannis will be back, and rather than us sit by ourselves, sitting together will be much better, won’t it?”

That was the most Sister Wilemina had ever said to him, and Kieran could only shrug.  Taking that for an invitation, the Sister smiled and sat. Violet, sensing a possible new mark for pats and treats, leaned up against the woman and stared at her with large, dark eyes.

“Violet, don’t bother the Sister.”  Kieran tugged on her collar to keep the dog from jumping up, but Sister Wilemina waved him off.

“Oh, don’t worry, dear,” she said, patting Violet’s blocky head.  “We had a Mabari when I was a girl, I know their tricks. Don’t I girl?  Yes I do.” Violet leaned into the Sister’s hand and grumbled happily when the ear scratches began.  Then the Sister nudged Kieran with her shoulder. “She’s trouble, isn’t she? I can tell. This is a cheeky one, for sure.”

“She really is.  Once, when she was smaller,  _ Mamae _ left all the puppies in the pen while we went to check traps, and when we got back, she’d tried to escape,” Kieran said, petting Violet gently as he recalled that warm, late summer day, before everything had changed.  Not that he didn’t like some of the changes, he liked having more family. It was just a lot to get used to. 

“But she had tried to escape under the house and had gotten stuck.   _ Mamae  _ couldn’t reach her, and she was scared and yipping, and I felt so bad for her.  We got some dried druffalo strips and she was able to wiggle into  _ Mamae’s  _ reach and get pulled out.  And she was so filthy after that.  We just rolled her around in the surf to clean her off,” he concluded, leaning over to hug Violet.  He had picked her out almost right away when Da had said he could have a pup, when Kieran hadn’t known Alistair was his Da.  She was still the smallest of the litter, but she had been the cleverest, perking up at him as soon as he said hello and always wanting to cuddle him.  

Sister Wilemina laughed at the story, throwing her head back and laughing like she wasn’t in a Chantry at all, where people were supposed to be quiet and respectful.  Kieran laughed then, too, and he felt bad for not having spoken much to Sister Wilemina before. She might not be sharp like Sister Tannis, but she was kind and honest and liked Violet.  All good things as far as Kieran was concerned. Then the main door behind them opened, and Kieran turned to see Da sidling into the Chantry. Behind him, the sky was mostly dark, and Kieran hoped  _ Mamae _ hadn’t been worrying.

Though, if she had been worrying, likely she would have come looking for him before now.

“Sorry I’m late,” Da said.  Kieran picked up his pack and signaled for Violet to follow him as Sister Wilemina got up to let him pass.  Da wrapped an arm around his shoulders, and then addressed the Sister. “And thank you, Sister, for watching him for a bit.”

“Oh, it was no trouble.  He kept me company is more like,” Sister Wilemina told Da, and then smiled at Kieran.   “Thank you, Kieran, for the story, and letting me say hello to Violet.”

“Of course, Sister, she likes meeting new people,” Kieran said.  Then Violet let out a happy bark, wagging her stubby tail, knowing when she was the object of discussion.  “And thank you, Sister. It was nice talking to you.”

They traded companionable smiles, and Kieran let Da lead him out of the Chantry into the cold, darkening evening.  At least the wind had gone down, and they didn’t have to pull up the hoods of their cloaks as they walked over the nearly frozen ground, frosted dirt crunching underneath their boots.  In the village, lights shone from the windows of houses, the scent of food carried on the smoke from the chimneys, and a few men were wandering out of The Mermaid’s Rest, back to their homes and their families.

“So, how was your first day back?” Da asked, breath steaming in the night air.  They had just passed through northern gap in the low, dilapidated village wall, and were out of earshot of everyone and everything.  Kieran thought about that question before answering, and he kicked a rock in the path, the stone skittering into the dead, brown grass.  Violet trotted next him, her warm, comfortable bulk between him and the vestiges of the wind off the sea, and he gave her back a pat.

“Good, really good,” Kieran said, realizing how amazing it felt that he meant those words with all of him.  He grinned, his happiness sitting like a warm mug of cocoa in his chest. Then an idea struck him suddenly, as if out of nowhere.  But it wasn’t out of nowhere, not really. He had probably been thinking of it already. “Da, you know how  _ Mamae _ doesn’t want to rehome all the dogs unless they all go at once?  And how Feastday is really, really close?”

“Yes,” he drawled, raising an inquiring eyebrow.

“I think I know who we can give Ivy to.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> For anyone wondering about "what the heck, Morrigan took up Mythal?!" Well, I saw a post about someone digging through dev notes in DAI, and they found a note that said Flemeth sent Mythal to Morrigan just before Solas killed her. I'm running with it.
> 
> Next game might change that, but as we all know, headcanon > canon.


	11. To Dwell in Possibility

Life settled into a routine as autumn gave way to winter, with Harvestmere nearly over and Feastday approaching.  Alistair had lived through several different kinds of routines in the course of his life. There had been his childhood in Redcliffe, with the lessons and stable chores assigned to him, not by the arl directly of course, but occasionally the man would come to check up on him.  He had hated Templar training at first, but the discipline and education had been the best someone like him could have expected, even if it had been lonely. Finally, his life as a Warden had its own patterns, training, darkspawn hunting, and horrifying investigations into red lyrium that ended up with him in the Fade.  Again. But that life had allowed him to cross paths with Caitwyn, and she had called him forward ever since.

Called forward to now, to when he woke up in his bed in his house next to the woman who held his heart.  Now, when Caitwyn woke and cuddled up next to him in the dark, early winter morning, wrapped up in more layers than he thought strictly necessary.  Now, when he slipped out of their room and stoked up the fire in the hearth for breakfast. Now, when their son dragged himself out of bed, black hair sticking up at all angles and rubbing sleep out of his eyes, his dog yipping at her brother Oak as they both were shown out the door.

“What are you smiling about?” Caitwyn asked, voice still groggy from sleep.  She peered up at him as she stood cuddled up next to his side in their small kitchen, her face scrunching up with what he could only call a fond kind of suspicion.

“Nothing much.  I just think today’s going to be a good day, that’s all,” he told her, dropping a quick kiss to the top of her head.  Nodding absently, she patted him on the butt, which could have a plethora of meanings, but right now it clearly meant, _yes dear, now kindly help get breakfast ready_.  They might not actually be married, in spite of what they had told the villagers, but Alistair would have bet he’d do better than any husband in knowing what his wife wanted of him without having to be told.

That day continued as the days before it had.  They readied breakfast for themselves and the dogs, thankfully only Oak and Violet now, the other dogs given to Kieran’s friends, and Ivy, the sweetest of the litter, gifted to the Chantry Sisters.  He must have given actual voice to the thought about how long it took her to part from the dogs, because she threw a towel at his head, and he immediately understood what she really meant. Again, demonstrating his excellent communication skills, he tidied up the kitchen without being directly told, and then got into his armor.

Swinging his arms to help the leather settle, Alistair waited for Kieran to clean up and get ready for his lessons at the Chantry.  There were more lessons lately, now that the weather had turned and there wasn’t always enough work around the farms and fishing grounds to keep children occupied.

“Kieran, come on, we’ve got the light now,” he called out, and Kieran practically tumbled out of his room in a flurry of boy, dog, and his pack for the day.

“Ready,” Kieran said, presenting himself at the door.  They took their respective cloaks off their hooks, Cait giving them each a kiss good-bye before she went out to hunt or track or something appropriately woodsy.  Together Alistair and Kieran made the quick walk to the village in good time, both of them eager to get out of the wind. Not that Alistair would be long out of the wind.  He had his rounds to make, and thankfully the past few weeks had been quiet. No more incidents with Hendyr or his ilk. That meant he might be able to see to it that the presents for Cait and Kieran were on track, because Feastday was fast approaching.  He and Cait had been apart for the past several Feastdays, not to mention that this was their first Satinalia as a family. Alistair wanted it to be perfect.

 

* * *

 

Caitwyn watched out the window as Alistair and Kieran disappeared down the path to the village, Violet trotting along at Kieran’s side.  Taking a sip of her tea, she eyed the solid bulk of Oak, who was currently lazing by the fire. She had decided to keep Oak for herself, the one that had proven best at silently tracking and hunting alongside her, nearly as good as his sire in that regard.  Giving the rest of Maethor’s last litter away had been hard, but at least they had gone to good homes and were nearby.

But now her mind turned to Feastday, and she had an errand of her own on that score.  Changing into two layers of pants, her sturdy, fur-lined boots, a padded jerkin, and a fur-lined hooded cloak, she left the house, Oak following her as a matter of course.  Once outside, she pulled her hood up against the wind that whipped in off the ocean. With a light step, she made it the tree line, and her cloak settled back around her ankles, the wind blunted by the silent giants of the forest.  Tracing one gloved hand along the rough bark of a solid oak tree, Caitwyn recalled her initial fear of wild places. Growing up in Denerim, the only large tree of her childhood was the Vhenadahl, and she had been overwhelmed by the sheer _space_ of the world outside the city’s walls.

Thinking of her childhood, she spared a guilty thought for her family still in the city, her family she could not contact anymore.  It was too dangerous, the Wardens wanting the secrets they held, and Queen Anora’s grip on power as an heirless monarch more precarious as time wore on.  But Caitwyn shook her head and those thoughts from her mind. There was nothing she could do to change it, and focused on the nature around her, grounding her in the moment.  Duncan had taught her some of the basics of woodcraft before Ostagar. Later, Sten had been her teacher during the Blight, and the rest she had learned on her own by trial and error.  Now, the wild places of the world held her heart in a way the city never had; she found comfort in the forest and at the top of mountains, in the clear, clean stretch of ocean.

The downside, however, was that it required a little more inventiveness in terms of making hidden caches.

Oak kept pace with her by instinct and training both, ears alert for danger.  She had her hunting bow and her mother’s knife, and though she didn’t expect any trouble today, Alistair had told her about Hendyr and his threats.  It had never paid to ignore threats, even if they seemed empty at the time. Given time and pressure, any man might find himself a monster, and she would not be unprepared.  Armed and ready for anything, she made her way to the nearest cache she had set up, knowing better than to store all their money and precious things in one place. Setting her bow down, she climbed up the bare-branched tree like a squirrel to where the branches split and a small hollow had formed in the bark.  With a careful hand, she reached into the hollow and withdrew a small, wooden box, treated to withstand the elements, and removed the gift she had commissioned not long before she left for the west in search of the cure. It had made its way into her lockbox in her absence, courtesy of Nathaniel she suspected, and then hidden away out here.  Just in case Alistair went snooping.

She had spent so many Feastdays apart from Alistair, for one reason or another.  Here, however, they had started a new life together, and this felt like the perfect gift to mark that occasion.  Stowing away her prize in her belt pouch with a secret smile, she replaced the box in its hiding place and climbed back down.  Then, since she was already in the forest, she began to make her rounds checking her traps to see if anything had volunteered itself for dinner.

 

* * *

 

Caitwyn opened her eyes slowly, enjoying the sensation of being under piles of blankets, and the sight in front of her.  Alistair, still half asleep, his blonde hair mussed from a night of huddled, cuddled warmth against the cold that crept into the house no matter how they sealed it up.  Shifting underneath the blankets, she closed the distance between them and touched her nose to his, jolting him the rest of the way to wakefulness. He stirred with a pleased grumble, a little bleary eyed, but smiling all the same to see her.  Tracing one finger down the line of his broken nose, she relished in the closeness of him, close enough to count the freckles on his cheeks.

Alistair gently took her hand and pressed a kiss to her palm.  The touch of his lips, as tender as it had ever been, invited her closer, and she pressed her body to his.  Tilting her head, she kissed him in the early morning, the wan winter light that streamed through the window making the world only barely visible.

Then she heard a door slam open and dogs barking.  The commotion jolted her and Alistair out of what had been a very lovely way to wake up.  But that didn’t prevent Alistair’s crooked smile, or her answering grin.

“Happy Satinalia love,” he said, voice still husky from sleep.  She took his face in her hands, thumbs tracing along the lines of cheeks as he wrapped his arms around her waist.

“Happy Satinalia, _vhenan_ ,” she answered, using the language of her people, if not her youth.

“Da!   _Mamae_!” Kieran called out from the living area, “It snowed!”

“Moment over?”  Alistair’s voice had a pained groan in it, but his smile remained on his face as he stretched out in their bed.  Sitting up with a sigh, her braided hair fell over her shoulder as the piles of quilts, blankets and bed clothes fell away from her.

“Moment over,” she confirmed.  They reluctantly rose, pulling on heavier clothing over their nightclothes.  Emerging from their room, she saw the living area empty, but that Kieran’s coat and boots were gone from their places by the door.

On stockinged feet, she padded across the room and opened the door to see the world covered in a heavy layer of snow, the early morning sun not quite glaring off the field of pristine white.  In the middle of the field of snow, she saw Kieran attempting to make snowballs, Oak and Violet bouncing excitedly around him, the first time either of the young dogs had seen snow. What a distance they had come, she thought, looking at the scene before her.  From a quiet, cautious boy, to a joyful one. Her son, playing in the snow with their dogs, without a worry in the world.

She wished his mother was here to see it.

Alistair slid up behind her and held her to him, arms crossed over her belly.  He pressed a kiss to her temple, and her hands rested on his arms. He chucked, a low rumble that she felt against her back.

“You remember when it snowed overnight in camp?” he asked her, and she hummed remembering the day.  Reaching up behind her, she stroked his chin, fingers dragging along the stubble there.

“You cheated, if I recall correctly.  Distracted me with a kiss and shoved snow down the back of my shirt,” she answered, an edge creeping into her voice.  Ever one to live dangerously, Alistair laughed again.

“Yeah, I got you really good.”  He was clearly pleased with himself for an act over ten years gone, and she turned in his arms, looking up at him thoughtfully.

“Yes, you really did.”  Her voice was a whisper, and it took him a few moments to catch up with her, that she wasn’t talking about how he’d managed to catch her in the snow.   A slow smile spread across his lips, and he leaned down to kiss her tenderly, the slow pull of him making heat flicker along her body. Then she felt a cold shock of snow spraying against her, and she saw Alistair had been struck with a direct hit to his shoulder.

They stared at each other in shock for a moment.  Alistair glanced down at the patch of white fluff that had stuck to his shirt, and then raised his head to see Kieran grinning with unrestrained glee at them both.

“Right, that’s it, it's war,” Alistair declared.  Not about to waste his advantage, Kieran ran across the snowy field, laughing as the dogs chased him while Alistair stomped into his boots to get his revenge.  Caitwyn shook her head, watching father and son play in the snow for a few moments before heading back inside to make her final Feastday breakfast preparations.  Before long, her boys managed to call a truce, though who won was likely to be a matter of continual debate, and they tucked into a hearty, lavish breakfast, something that was halfway between breakfast and luncheon really, complete with slices of fruit mince pie.

The last time she had a family Feastday had been when she was seventeen, when Soris and Shianni had been living with her and Papa, and all the family had come through the house, and she had gone around the houses herself.  The homes were warm, fired stoked against the cold for the first night of the holiday at least, spending a bit of the precious coal stores to have that light in the depth of winter, as if it would call up the sun again. The meals were lavish for the Alienage, and she had received the usual gifts: clothes, a sewing needle, all things she would need for her upcoming marriage.  All useful things. She had never really understood the idea of useless gifts until Alistair had given her that rose, sadly turned to dust now.

As the memory of her life from before surfaced, she could not escape the guilt that squirmed inside of her.  Papa should be here, she thought, and she should write to Shianni and Soris, to all her cousins and uncles and aunties.  But it wasn’t _safe_ , she told herself.  Not safe.

“Is it time for gifts?” Kieran asked, breaking into her thoughts.  His hair was still mussed from the snowball fight, though all the snow had melted and dried away by now, and he was wiping his hands on a towel.  Alistair was much the same, and they must have finished cleaning all the dishes while she stared into the fire, lost in thought.

“I think so,” Alistair replied, eyeing her with a small measure of concern.  She nodded and smiled, waving away Alistair’s worry and putting the memory of her childhood away.  Shooting to her feet, she retrieved her gifts from behind their bookshelf, where she had secreted them away.  Alistair did the same, though he had used the hidden compartment in their bedroom as his hiding place. Even though he had used the compartment she had made herself, Caitwyn was proud of herself that she had not given into the temptation to take a peek.  Though that had been more than a passing difficulty. What surprised her was Kieran disappearing into his room to fetch something. Within moments they were on the floor by the fire sitting in a little triangle, knee to knee to knee.

“Can I go first?” Kieran asked nervously.  Holding one of his books tightly to his chest, Kieran’s eyes shifted from her to Alistair and back, his black brows arched in hope.

“You didn’t need to get us anything,” Alistair told him gently, though the mere idea that Kieran had a gift for them touched them both.

“I know, but that’s Feastday.  You don’t _need_ to, but if you want you, you should.  And it’s not much. I didn’t buy it. I made it, so I hope that’s alright.”

“Of course, it’s alright.”  Caitwyn rubbed his back reassuringly, and he nodded as if telling himself he could show them his gift.  Then he let the book fall away from his chest and he opened the cover to reveal a beautiful drawing of their house, of their home.  It was done in simple pencil, but it was the house on its hill, with the chimney on the forest-facing side, and the grass bent in the breeze that swept off the ocean.  In that drawing was a portion of the peace she felt every time she saw the house as she returned home.

“Kieran, this is fantastic!” Alistair enthused.  With one arm wrapping around Kieran’s shoulder’s, Alistair carefully picked up the drawing with his free hand to take it all in.  Alistair’s face split in a proud, delighted grin. “We need to get his framed.”

“It’s not that good,” Kieran demurred.  Her son’s ears were then bright red, and she swore she could feel the heat coming off him like a fire-warmed brick.

“You don’t determine the worth of a gift, Kieran, that’s up to the recipient, and your Da and I love this,” she said, kissing him soundly on the cheek.  He squirmed, at the age where he sometimes felt as though he were too old for such obvious affection from any of his parents.

“ _Mamae_ ,” he complained, pulling away and wiping off his cheek dramatically.  She laughed, waving off his protest, and then reached behind her to retrieve a small wooden box.  The cherry wood glowed with a smooth finish, and it had a good heft to it.

“And I think this is a good time to give you my gift,” she said.  After only a moment’s hesitation, Kieran took the box from her hands.  Setting it down carefully, he lifted the lid, and bright smile bloomed on his face.  Caitwyn resisted the urge to show him all the little bits and pieces, letting him see for himself all the different pots of color and brushes.  They were only simple watercolors, she had done her research and learned that was the best way for new artists to start out using color in their work.  While Kieran often hid what he drew, there was no disguising the fact that he drew on any handy bit of paper, and she had already determined that she wanted to encourage him with his art.

Alistair hadn’t been against it, not in the slightest.  But he’d had different gift-giving priorities. So Kieran was getting two gifts from them this year, and she hadn’t the heart to put her foot down on that.  It was not likely Kieran would end up spoiled. After all, they had a lot of time to make up for.

“These are amazing, _Mamae_ , thank you.”  Then he hugged her tight, apparently not embarrassed if he was the one doing the hugging.  She wrapped her arms around him and held him close for a moment, squeezing him just a little.

“Yes, your _mamae_ gives good gifts,” Alistair acknowledged, breaking the moment.  In spite of his lazy drawl, Alistair shifted anxiously, and there was trepidation in his smile.  She knew how he wanted today to be perfect, and how much it meant to him to give his son a gift with his own two hands.  That didn’t mean she wasn’t going to let him get off easily, and she shook her head in an obvious, if playful, display of irritation.  Kieran wiggled away from her, and nearly vibrated in anticipation to see what his father had gotten him.

“I hope you like this too.”  Alistair reached behind him and presented Kieran with a rolled-up, patchwork quilt.  Then he flipped the fabric over to reveal a sheathed short-sword. Kieran’s eyes widened to the size of saucers, and he gingerly picked up the black leather scabbard, his small hand closing around the leather-wrapped hilt.  Partially drawing it, he examined the exposed portion of the blade, and even if Caitwyn hadn’t known the source, she would have been able to see it was of Dalish make, fine and light, but with a wicked edge. Jharon had outdone himself, and he should have for the price they paid for it.  Maker, but they were lucky Jharon was typically Dalish about secrets, or the sheer amount of money they spent on that sword would be all over the village.

Caitwyn caught herself before she went too far down that line of thinking and pushed those mundane concerns from her mind.  Instead, she focused on Kieran as he stood, delightedly buckling on the scabbard, Alistair helping him getting to sit right.  Their son rested his hand on the round pommel, and shot them both a proud, pleased grin.

“We’re still going to practice with the wooden swords, but I thought it would be good for you to have a real blade,” Alistair told him, as he adjusted Kieran’s form by habit.

“Thank you, Da,” Kieran said, giving his father a brief hug.  Alistair held Kieran close, giving him a solid pat on the back, but Caitwyn could see the pride in Alistair’s eyes and smile.  He’d done well, and that was worth more than anything else on a day like today. “I’ll use it only for good things, I promise.”

“I know you will, pup,” Alistair said, and Kieran beamed at the praise.  Then he glanced between Caitwyn and Alistair, his lips pursed thoughtfully.

“I think you should give _Mamae_ her gift now,” Kieran suggested, and Alistair raised an eyebrow.

“You do, do you?”  Alistair drawled the question, his grin turning into a smirk while Kieran nodded sagely.  “Alright, but only because you said so.” Kieran’s grin became conspiratorial, and Caitwyn began to worry, just a little, what they had cooked up between them.  Kieran retreated to sit on the couch, his sword still on his hip—she had the inkling that getting him to remove it would be a daily struggle—and gathered up his paints, going through them more thoroughly.

Caitwyn turned her attention to Alistair, eyeing the love of her life warily, though her heart fluttered to see him regarding her with a tinge of shyness in spite of the smirk.  His expression took her back to when he had been awkward and uncertain, not quite sure what he was doing, but only knowing that he couldn’t bring himself to do nothing. In her was an echo of her slow realization, ten years distant, that she cared about this strange, unserious, gentle man.  Cared more than she ever knew she could. Letting out a breath, he shifted to face her, and she did the same, knee to knee. She glanced out the corner of her eye at Kieran, who seemed firmly absorbed in his own gifts, apparently contemplating coloring his sketch of the house.

“Cait, I gave you a rose, once, because I was trying, not very well mind you, to tell you how much you had come to mean me,” he began, voice soft, then his mouth twisted in a self-deprecating grin.  “Then it turned to dust, which was expected, because it was a flower. So.” A breath, a moment, to gather his courage once again, and he held another cloth-wrapped bundle. “I got you this.”

Then he pared back the white woolen wrapping to reveal another rose, but this one was made of metal.  The petals were paper-thin and a deep, burnished red, the stem was bronze, complete with incredibly detailed leaves and thorns, both with the barest tints of green.  Holding the rose in her hands, she felt transported back to that evening in the forest. He had been so scared, she knew now, so scared she would think his gesture stupid or inadequate, not enough because he had never been enough for anyone else.  Unfortunately, she had been confused; no one had ever gotten her flowers before and it had taken a bit of explaining on her part to get the _why_ of that across.  She had contemplated that rose for a long time, but this one she held to her chest like it was a precious thing, though it was much more durable than the first.

“So, you like it?” he asked, some of that old apprehension creeping into his voice.  She let a smile slowly stretch her lips, and then in a sudden movement, she launched herself at him, rose in one hand, the other cupping the back of his neck and pulling him forward, until their lips met.  Against her lips, he spoke, somehow wry and tender at the same time, “I’ll take that as a yes.”

“You,” she said pulling away, her green eyes mock stern, “know full well what you’re about.”

“Took my time to learn, with you,” he replied, his hazel eyes flickering with a remnant of the heat that had kindled between them all too briefly earlier that morning.  Then Kieran cleared his throat, very obviously picked up his paints and book, and moved to the table.

“I’ll just be over here, where I don’t have to see you two being gross,” he said, all childish indignation.  Cait stifled a chuckle.

“Alright, what’d you get me?” Alistair asked, trying to peer behind her back.  Though that wasn’t where she had his gift at present, she held him off with an outstretched arm and a peeling laugh.  “You didn’t get me anything did you? I knew it. Just forget poor Alistair—”

“Oh, come off it,” she told him, and pulled a small bag out of her shirt pocket.  That got his attention, if only because it was unexpected, and she opened the drawstring to fish out the contents.  Two silverite rings, both engraved with the relief of a rose. One was small and fine, made her for finger. That had been the ring he’d given her before she’d gone out west, before the last time they had parted.  A memento, a reminder to come back to him, though she’d hardly needed such encouragement. To have carried something of him with her, however, had kept her going when she’d doubted, when she’d been tempted to give up.  She’d kept it stowed away since returning, wanting to wear it again when he had a ring to match. That ring was in her hand now, heavier than hers with a thicker band, but they were clearly a matched set. She smiled up at him, bright and hopeful and hoping that he saw it for what it was.

“Cait, are you _proposing_?”   Alistair’s voice rose in shock, and she thought he might have sputtered.  Actually sputtered. Her jaw clenched with irritation and she sucked in a hard breath.

“Wait, you _aren’t_ married?”  Kieran’s question burst the bubble of her initial frustration, and she breathed out slowly.  Their son turned around in his chair, incredulity writ large on his face. This was not the reception to her gift she had been hoping for, and she frowned, brow furrowing in obvious annoyance.  Alistair tried to reach for the ring, but his comment sat in her mind, a sour note to the day, so she closed her fingers around her gift and held it to her chest. Instead, she turned her attention to Kieran.

“No, we aren’t married.  As Wardens, it wasn’t against the rules, but fraternization was frowned upon between commanders and subordinates.  There were other reasons too, to not have our names on official Chantry records.” Reasons like the threat of Alistair producing children as rival claimants to the throne, and her own aversion to weddings in general.

“And being married isn’t necessary to be with someone you love, Kieran,” Alistair added, echoing her words from years ago.  He had wanted to get married, very much so. He’d even proposed. She had turned him down though it had broken her heart to do so, to see him so gutted if only for a moment before she explained.  It had taken time to rebuild after that, but they had managed. They always did.

Alistair dropped his eyes, an unspoken apology for his outburst, and cautiously watched her from underneath worried brows.  Then he ventured a tentative smile, and his voice was gentle on his words. “We _are_ married, in every way that matters.  We love each other, we have a home and family together.  Everything else is paperwork.”

Kieran frowned, silently repeating _in every way that matters_ , and then he nodded as he connected the similarities in that to the relationship he had with Caitwyn: her son, in every way that mattered.

“Alright.  Sorry I interrupted.  Da, you should let _Mamae_ talk first,” Kieran advised, with all the sage wisdom of a ten-and-a-half-year-old boy.  Alistair sighed and mouthed a silent _I’m sorry_ , at her, and Caitwyn shifted closer to him again, their knees touching as they sat on the floor by the fire.

“What I was going to say was that I know you wanted to get married, and I’ve been thinking about it off and on since then, what it means.  It’s a promise, take away everything else, and that’s what it is, a promise.” The words were easy to say now in a way they had never been, and he watched her with an avid expression on his face.  With her free hand, she turned his right hand palm up, and rubbed her thumb across the heel of his hand. He uncurled his fingers, and she placed the slimmer ring on his upturned hand. “And now that we have this life, I want to make a promise with you.  What do you say?”

“Yes.  Very much, yes.  All the yes there is.”  The reply was immediate, a rapid fire exaltation of a moment he never thought would happen.  A delighted grin curved his lips and made his hazel eyes dance with glee. Nearly manic, he gestured for her to hold her hand out, and he took her proffered hand in his own strong one.  Ring poised at the end of her finger, some of his excitement bled away to be placed by breathless love.

“I promise to love you, Caitwyn Tabris, to honor and protect you, to hold you, and no other, from this day, and all my days to come,” he recited, tears choking his voice.  He held them back and slipped the ring onto her finger and gave it a little twist, making the rose face up. Then she took his hand, holding out the heavier, newer ring for him, that flutter back in full force.  She cleared her throat and recited her part.

“I promise to love you, Alistair, to honor and protect you, to hold you, and no other, from this day, and all my days to come.”  Her voice ended in a whisper, her love of him overwhelming her in the moment, humbling and uplifting, a leap of faith and a solid place to stand all at the same time.  A tremor ran through her arm, but he waited and let her take her time. Like always. With a shudder and half a laugh at her own completely unnecessary nerves, she slipped the heavier ring onto his finger and watched him from underneath her lashes.  A sly smile curved her lips, and she couldn’t resist adding a touch of levity to the moment, and if he found fault in it the habit was one _he_ had encouraged anyway.  “I suppose this makes you a Tabris for real, now.”

“I suppose it does.  Can’t think of any other name I’d rather have,” he murmured in a husky voice.  Heat ran up her face and ears, and not just from the fire. He took her hand in his, and that drew her attention back down to see their fingers intertwined, dark and light stark against each other, but the same silverite glinted in the firelight on the same finger.  Then Alistair crooked a finger of his free hand under her chin and tipped her face up. For a moment they gazed into each other’s eyes like love struck children, their breath mingling between them before he kissed her with a tenderness that he knew undid her, making Caitwyn very grateful that the couch blocked them from Kieran’s view.

They parted with a sigh, and Caitwyn’s eyes fluttered open.  She nuzzled at his stubbly cheek and asked in a low voice, “How’d I do?”

“Best gift I’ve ever gotten.  You gave me you,” he replied, the answer so perfectly _him_ , she almost couldn’t stand it.

“Are you done with gifts and mushy stuff, because Dyfan said if it snowed we could go sledding, and I’ve never been sledding!” Kieran shouted, from his place at the table as if sheer volume could drown out said _mushy stuff_.   Alistair sighed, his head falling forward on her shoulder in a flop of despair.

“You can go sledding, Kieran!  You can go!” Alistair shouted without bothering to look up.  Then in a smaller voice he spoke for her ears alone, “I love him, but Maker, please can he go by himself?”

“He’s already getting back into his boots,” she whispered, kissing Alistair on the cheek.

“Oh, thank Andraste,” he said fervently.

“Take both the dogs, Kieran!” Caitwyn called out after him, and Kieran ordered Oak and Violet to him.   Shrugging into his coat, he was out the door with a hurried good-bye, and then all was quiet. Just them nearly cuddling by the warm and crackling fire in their quiet little house.  All the dishes done, and all the food put away, and nothing else to do for the day.

“You know, now that I think of it, it’s never been only the two of us here,” she said quietly, lips just brushing his ear.  The effect on Alistair was electric.

“Then I’m not about to waste this!”  Swiftly, he picked her up, her legs dangling high off the ground as he started for their bedroom, startling a laugh out of her.

“Alistair, Alistair, the door.”  She pointed over his shoulder at the door to the house, currently unlocked.  Without setting her down, he altered course and flipped the latch over, locking out the world.  Then he paused a moment, considering her thoughtfully. Keeping her held in one arm, he picked up the door bar with his free hand and set it in the brackets set in the doorframe.  Mission accomplished, he held her against the wall, kissing her deeply, and her legs wrapped around his waist.

“Bed or…” he offered, trailing kisses along her jaw and down her neck.  Head lolling back, she tried to think though the options, but he was being entirely too distracting.  Her fingers dug into his hair, and she arched against him.

“Want… slow, bed… better for that,” she managed to say between delighted gasps, and he carried her back into their bedroom, where, as she had requested, they took their time.

Later, much later, and very disheveled, Caitwyn hummed happily as she pressed her naked body to his in cat-like bliss.  He held her close with one arm strong wrapped around her back, while his other hand held her own to his chest, just over his heart.  She could feel the steady beat of it against her fingers, and she couldn’t resist playing a little with the fluff on his chest in time to his heart.  A chuckle rumbled through his chest, and he pressed a kiss to the top of her head. She felt perfectly and delightfully boneless, though the chill air prickled her skin.  They would either have to get dressed or pull the covers up before too much longer, but in this moment, she did not care to move. She was in the bed she shared with the man she loved, and she knew what a gift that was, in and of itself.

 

* * *

 

Alistair had returned to his rounds as sheriff once the holiday was over, and the month of Haring brought with it only another heaping pile of snow.  Winter could be a hard time, but the harvest had been good this year, and the fish were still biting, which meant that there was only the standard amount of village grumbling.  Caitwyn had gone back to hunting and trapping, even in this weather, which was probably why she was currently curled up at home, sick as anything. Thus, he trotted back up to the house, just head of midday, the sun nearly at its zenith in the winter sky.  The chill air filled his lungs, just shy of burning, and he idly thought he really should get a hat of some sort, because his ears were freezing. But he had more important things to do. Caitwyn had gotten sick off and on over the years, more than most Wardens did, and he was worried how sick she might get without the Taint.  At least she hadn’t tried to hide herself up a tree or on a roof like she used to, instead staying safely indoors where if she fell, it wasn’t that far to the ground.

The snow had kept falling since Feastday, building higher and higher, and it was only thanks to his daily rounds over the past month that the path to the house was clearly marked.  Reaching the house, he bounded up the steps, undid the trigger for the trap Cait had installed, and unlatched the door. Kicking the snow off his boots before he entered their home.  He unslung his pack gently, mindful of the jug of soup he had picked up from Hetty that morning, and he hoped it would help Cait recover. Alistair could make stew, he was Fereldan after all, but he was well aware they left something to be desired.  Such as flavor and general quality.

He didn’t want to make Cait sicker.

Quietly, crossed to the door to their room, just in case she was asleep.  The door opened at his touch, swinging inward, and instead of seeing the expected built up fort of blankets Caitwyn would hide in, the bed was stripped and Cait was nowhere in sight.  It wasn’t that big of a room, and while she had a tendency to hide when ill, even she wouldn’t hide in a clothes cupboard. Then again, she had some strange notions when she was sick.

Checking the clothes cupboard he saw it only full of clothes, and he tried not to worry.  The bed was stripped, which meant she might have thrown up, and it was like her to try to erase any and all evidence of such sickness before anyone could see it, even him.  Leaving the bedroom, he peered around the couch and found the bed clothes soaking in the washtub by the hearth, the water still warm. That meant she couldn’t have gone far.

Alistair pulled his boots back on and strode out the door, circling around the leeward side of their house, and saw her small boot tracks in the snow heading past the covered wood pile and over the entrance to the root cellar.  Then he was around the back of the house, where the hill remained mostly flat for another good fifteen feet before sloping off sharply. Kieran and his friends had played there for a whole day not a week past, sledding that hill over and over, building a jump out of the snow, their dogs chasing them up and down.  Caitwyn had happily played with Branwen, Dyfan’s baby sister, all day, helping her build snow castles, heedless of how much Branwen had been sniffling. Maybe that was the source of all this trouble, and he hoped that was the case. While Caitwyn had been occupied, he and the other men had cobbled together a bench on the hill that day, to keep an eye on the children.  It was situated just past the wood-splitting stump that had already been there when he and Cait had bought the house.

It was on that bench that Caitwyn sat now, her small form bundled up in the multi-colored patchwork quilt from their bed, hair spilling out from over the top of the fabric like a soft bramble.  Oak sat attentively next to her, his head resting on her lap. Cait was patting the dog absently, and Oak’s eyes tracked Alistair as he approached, an expression of canine concern on his face. It was almost like the dog was saying that he had tried to comfort Cait as best he could, but it hadn’t been enough.

Actually, it probably was exactly that, knowing Mabari.

“Cait, how you feeling?” he asked, sitting back on his heels in front of her.  He covered the hand that clutched the quilt about her with his own. It was as cold as ice and a shiver of fear ran through him.  This was more than a cold caught from a babe, but he tried to keep his tone light and playful. “I brought you some soup. Hetty made it.”

Instead of replying immediately, she stared out over the ocean, her breath steaming in the icy air.  It had been a long time since she had been this closed off from him, and he began to worry in earnest.  The water in the washing tub, he wondered if he had seen a tinge of red to it. Had she coughed up blood?  Or worse, spat up blood? Was her body unable to adjust, long term, to not having the Taint? Was the lack of it slowly killing her?  His mind spiraled out, a thousand possibilities, each of them worse than the last, but he swallowed heavily and waited.

The cold nipped at his ears and nose, and the wind tugged at her hair.  For a moment they were locked in terrible silence, the hushed, snow-covered land around them an echo to their private fears.

“I didn’t even think it was possible,” she said softly, summer green eyes still distant.  “Funny really, me discounting something like that.”

“Cait, talk to me, I’m right here.  What’s going on?” he asked, growing more insistent, gripping her hand tighter.  She turned to him, gaze still abstracted but at least looking at him now. The corners of her lips twitched downwards, a prelude to a frown, but she was still keeping herself under tight control.  Seeing her this controlled, it made him ache, it made him remember when they had first met and he had only seen glimmers of the woman she was underneath her masks. And now one of those masks was back, but she took a breath, fighting through all those old instincts to the newer ones she had cultivated over the years they had been together.  To talk instead of hide, to trust him instead of avoid him.

“I’m pregnant.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Y'all had to see this one coming a mile away. Did it anyway!


	12. Contrary to All Reason

Alistair’s face went blank, and Caitwyn wondered if he had broken, somehow.  She had been sure that Alistair would jump for joy upon hearing that she was pregnant, but instead he sat as if buried under ice.  Then with a trembling hand, he pressed his fingertips to where the quilt that was wrapped around her covered her belly. Raising his eyes to hers, he searched her face, trying to find the reason why she sat watching the ocean in the winter winds rather than warming herself by the fire.

“You’re scared,” he supplied.   He could see it in her face, because he knew what to look for, and in how she reacted, how she had always reacted first to fear.  She tried to get away, to hide from it, but she couldn’t. Not this time. The cause of her fear grew within her, and there was no getting away from herself.  She had tried that once; it hadn’t worked then, and it wouldn’t work now.

“So scared.”  Her voice was a whisper under the crash of the winter tide, and she clutched the quilt tighter about herself, trying to disappear into it.   But he didn’t let her, cupping her cheek with one strong hand, tying her to the world. At his touch the words tumbled from her, like water over rocks too fast and choked with tears, her lilting accent coming back in full force.  “Alistair, Alistair what if it, what if it comes out wrong? What if the cure was too late and I’m too damaged inside and I lose it? Oh Maker, I could lose this baby, and I don’t—I don’t want to disappoint you. I don’t know if I could take it, losing this child.  I had no idea, no idea how much I wanted a baby with you until today, until I thought about how much it would hurt to lose it.”

“Cait, Cait, you could  _ never _ disappoint me.  And whatever happens, all I’ve ever needed is you.  Nothing is going to change that,” he insisted, rising up to touch his forehead to hers.  With strong arms, he held her, and she fell into him. The words washed over her, and she shut her eyes tight, tears tracing down her cheeks.  “Look we’ve got lots to talk about but maybe we should go inside, hm? I could make you a cocoa.”

The simple offer, sweet and enticing, drew a huff of amusement from her, and she sniffed back her tears, replacing them with a wan smile.

“Probably a good idea,” she agreed.  He grinned hopefully at her, but she couldn’t go that far. The niggling, digging fears clung to her, trapping her more tightly the more she struggled against them.  She sat perched between hope and terror, and it froze her as surely as the winter winds would if she remained outside much longer.

Alistair shuffled her back inside the house, settling her next to the fire.  She watched as he warmed some milk in a pot, carefully adding in sugar and some of their very dear supply of cocoa, his movements deliberate and careful, stepping around the laundry tub by the hearth.  The water in the tub was just barely warm and she knew the bed clothes had to be wrung out and hung to dry, but her current whirling thoughts made such a menial task a nightmare to comprehend. 

“There you are,” he said, handing her the mug.  She took it, letting it warm her hands while she waited for it to be cool enough to drink.  Then he settled next to her on the couch, pulling the quilt over their legs, and she curled up beside him.  She sipped the cocoa, and like it always was when he made it, it was a touch too sweet for her liking.

“Alright, so,” he began, one arm wrapping around her middle, hand spread out over her stomach.  It made her heart lurch, that touch, that gesture, made without conscious effort. Already he hoped and dreamed, she knew.  Dreams, she had left those behind a long time ago. What came to her was what came to her. The cure at least has been on paper, notes, formulae, something  _ real _ .  Something she could see, if not understand.  Something that could be acted on. A child was too much hope, too much faith for her, too much passive trust in a future that was not certain.  Too much out of her control.

“So,” she echoed, then exhaled slowly, her breath banishing the steam from the cocoa.  She could lay this out for him. She could. “I, ah, I had really thought it wasn’t possible.  Since we’d been cured, I haven’t even had my monthlies. Nothing. They were never regular before the Joining, and after, well, they were gone entirely.  When they didn’t come back after being cured, I thought that was my answer. And it didn’t bother me any. We had each other, and suddenly we had Kieran. Had our hands full, really, didn’t think much on it.”  Her voice trembled at the last, the enormity of what grew inside her rearing up like a threatening shadow, but she pressed on.

“I’d been tired, the past week or so, and this morning, I thought I’d just finally gotten sick.  Felt nauseous, and you know how I hate throwing up.” Her tone turned wry on that point, and he hummed in agreement, nuzzling at her curls as she gazed into the fire.  Oak curled up on the warm stones, more content than his sire ever was to let Alistair comfort her by himself. “Well, did that after you left. Seemed to get a second wind then, so I started cleaning up.  But that made me think, how I felt better all of a sudden. It was a lark, really, throwing the herbs in the pot to do the test, just to put the notion out of my head more than anything else.”

“Test?” he asked, voice a low, gentle rumble in her ears, and she huffed.  So much he didn’t know being a man, a man who had never been prepared for a normal kind of life.  A small life with its rhythms and measures, with wisdom passed down through generations, old women telling young women what to expect as they grew up.  The life she that she had left behind at eighteen.

“The aptly named piss pot test.”  She leaned back, arching an eyebrow at him, waiting to see if he put it together.  He didn’t. She sighed, and waved her hand, as if reaching back through the years to a time when she had been just a girl, newly betrothed and every auntie and granny in the Alienage had been over eager to give her all sorts of advice.  Not all of it useful. Or accurate. But enough of it was. “You throw some herbs in the pot before going. If there’s the right kind of color change, well. You’re pregnant. Thank you, Granny Neave for that bit of knowledge.”

“At which point, you decided to sit on the bench in the freezing cold?” he asked, an ever so slightly sharp edge to his tone.  Running away hiding, again. An old habit they had both thought she had put behind her. “And don’t say you had the quilt. Cait, how long would have sat out there if I hadn’t come home?”

“There’s still laundry to wring out.  I would’ve come in eventually,” she said petulantly, making him frown.  Closing her eyes briefly, she tried to still her racing heart and the tears that threatened to come back, and then attempted to speak plainly for all that her fears continued to hound and bite at her.  “Alistair, it  _ hit _ me, overwhelmed me, and I couldn’t stop thinking about how easy it is to lose a baby, and that’s  _ without _ having been a Warden for ten years.  I told you, I don’t think I could stand to lose this baby.  Or worse, give birth to something…  _ wrong. _  Tainted because  _ I _ was Tainted.”

“You’re not going to—”  He barely got the words out of his mouth before she sat up, disentangling herself from him, barely keeping the cocoa from spilling over.  She knew what he was going to say _you’re not going to lose the baby,_ but he didn’t know.  He couldn’t know. Neither of them could, and a pressure built behind her chest like water behind a dam.  His words were without substance, words that scared her for the hope they held. 

“Don’t,” she bit out.  “Don’t you dare assume you know what’s going to happen.  Don’t make me hope, because that hope is going to kill me in the end if this comes to naught.”

He closed his eyes for a moment, gathering himself before fixing worried hazel eyes on her face.  Rubbing his hand over his jaw, he tried to find a way to reply, to put her fears at ease. He had done it before, time and time again, fighting her fears alongside her without a second thought.  But nothing they had faced before was like this. This was a future in flux, alternately joyful and sorrowful, and it caught her in a vice, threatening to squeeze her into nothing.

“Clearly, nothing I can say is going to be helpful at the moment.  You aren’t going to listen to me on this. Which is fine, because I don’t know,” he told her gently, without rancor.  He stood up from the couch and disappeared into their room. She peered over the back of the couch, absently sipping at the too-sweet cocoa, a frown marring her features at his unusual behavior.  Then he emerged, a small red crystal in his hand. Morrigan’s sending crystal. He held it out for her. “But someone else knows, and she’s been through this, so. You might actually listen to her.”

Her hand hovered over the crystal.  At his nod, she took it, sinking back down on to the couch, examining the device.  Last time she’d tried to contact Morrigan, her friend had not had it on her, but perhaps she would now that Kieran was with them.  Oh Maker, Kieran. What would this mean for him, she wondered. No, she pried herself away from that future hurdle. That conversation would come later, when he came home from his lessons.  Right now, she had to know if her body would destroy this child before it had even begun to live, and of all the people in the world, Morrigan would know the answer. She glanced at Alistair as he dragged a chair to the wash basin and started to wring out the bedclothes, for all the world engrossed on the task in front of him. 

“I love you,” she told him, starting to surface, just a little, from the dangerous waters her mind had strayed to.

“Love you, too, now talk to her before we end up in another  _ discussion _ ,” he said dryly, ever unwilling to call it an argument.  She snapped her fingers and patted the couch, and Oak levered himself off the hearthstones to cuddle up next to her on the couch, his heavy bulk a comfort as she activated the crystal.  It lit up from inside, flickering and pulsing just like last time. Tentatively, she asked, “Morrigan?”

“Caitwyn?  T’is early yet.” Morrigan’s voice came through the crystal, and Caitwyn started, not quite prepared for the disembodied voice.  It sounded as if Morrigan were right in front of her, and the dissonance caught her off guard. She detected a note of concern in her friend’s tone, and Caitwyn wanted to kick herself.  Of course, Morrigan’s first thought would be for her son, though she didn’t inquire directly.

“Kieran’s alright.  He’s at his lessons,” she said quickly, and she thought she heard a sigh of relief from the other woman.  “It’s not him, I’m calling—is that the right word? Calling about. It’s me.”

“Are you ill?  Is some old village crone forcing you to drink something?  Stop  _ immediately. _  Likely t’will only make things worse.  Tell me what ails you, and I shall tell you what herbs to gather,” Morrigan said, and Caitwyn shook her head.  Then she remembered Morrigan couldn’t see her.

“No, not ill, not exactly.”  Taking a breath, her eyes darted to Alistair.  He’d finished one lot of wringing, and was stringing it up.  She hated having to do washing in winter, how it took up the house for a time, but there was nothing for it once she’d decided to wash the bedclothes.

“Then, what, exactly, are you contacting me for?  Not that I do not enjoy speaking to you, but—”

“Morrigan, I’m pregnant,” Caitwyn said in a rush, interrupting the other woman.  There was silence for a moment, and Cait held the crystal to her ear, as if that would help.

“Do you wish to be?” Morrigan asked, and the very question felt like a blow to her middle.  Did she wish this? Had she wished for this? Now and again, perhaps, when Nathaniel’s nephew or Oghren’s son had been at Vigil’s Keep, when she had picked up the children and their weight felt almost right in her arms, or when Alistair hoisted the little ones on his shoulders, paying no mind to whatever they dribbled onto him, more than happy to give tired parents a chance to rest.  But that was a lie. Not now and again. Every day, in the back of her mind, she saw how she had been reluctant to let the children go, how she had taken Kieran into her heart so easily. A child, Alistair’s child, to raise and love - Andraste preserve her, she had wished for this every day without knowing it, and only now, confronted with her wish did she quail.

She had been silent a moment too long, and she caught Alistair watching her, startled concern on his face at the question and her lack of reply.  It had never entered his head that she could  _ not _ want a child, even though she had told him how much she wanted it and feared losing it.  The option to get rid of it made him clench his jaw and stare at the crystal as if he wanted to smash it.

“Yes,” she breathed, blinking back tears.  “More than anything.”

“Then, my friend, you have my congratulations,” Morrigan said, and Caitwyn thought she heard a smile in the cadence of her dearest friend’s voice.  It made Caitwyn’s lips break into a brief grin in response, and she held Alistair’s eyes with her own, letting him see how much she wanted this baby.  He nodded, staying silent for the moment, and gestured for her to keep going. She had come this far, she could make it the rest of the way.

“But that’s not why I called you, Morrigan.  I, I have to know. Am I? Will the baby? Can I have this baby?  Because I’m afraid, afraid that because I was a Warden—”

“Do you recall what I told you, after the ritual was complete?” Morrigan asked, cutting into Caitwyn’s words, her voice only slightly peevish for having to repeat herself.

“To be honest, not really.  That morning is largely a blur,” Caitwyn admitted, toying with the crystal as she spoke.  Morrigan’s sigh was reassuringly familiar, and something about that mix of exasperation and fondness made her feel like she was within sight of the shore, rather than lost at sea.

“I said you were cured.  The Taint had been cleaned from you,  _ as if it had never been _ ,” Morrigan told her, stressing the last words.  “The damage wrought by the Taint was corrected. I will admit, the ritual would not have been so successful had your possessed friend not been present.  Indeed, I doubt if even the old—if even Wynne could have done as he did.” At Morrigan’s words, at the reassurance that her body would not harm the child she carried, Caitwyn only barely stifled a sob, relief and joy breaking in her like the tide, washing away the terror that had cast a pall over what should have been a happy occasion.

“Thank you, Morrigan, thank you,” she said, voice breaking as she smiled through her tears.  Alistair let the last bedsheet, still heavy with wash water, fall to the floor with a wet slap, and he wrapped his arms around her, pressing fierce kisses into her hair.

“T’is a small matter, to set your mind at ease over this, my friend.  My sister,” Morrigan said, her voice nearly as gentle as it was when she spoke to Kieran.  Caitwyn clutched the crystal tightly to her, as if through it she could somehow hold her friend, her heart’s sister, as well.  Alistair still held her close, his rapid heartbeat loud in her ear, and finally, finally, Caitwyn felt safe enough to hope.

“Now,” Morrigan continued, her tone shifting to brusque and businesslike, and Caitwyn grinned at the predictability of that.  Never long to linger on sentiment, her sister. “How far advanced is the pregnancy?”

“About a month, I’d say.”  Alistair peered down at her curiously at her estimate, and she mouthed the word  _ Feastday _ , eliciting a silent  _ ah _ of realization from him.  They had locked themselves in the house that day, after Kieran had left to go sledding with his friends, and they had spent the day very much enjoying each other’s company.  The timing fit, she thought, with what she remembered Granny Neave telling her about the first signs of pregnancy.

“T’will be a late summer birth, then,” Morrigan said, voice thoughtful.  “I shall be able to return, come mid-summer. Indeed, I have been thinking I should visit again, to see Kieran.  T’is fortuitous timing.”

“You’re coming  _ here _ ?” Alistair exclaimed, breaking into the conversation at Morrigan’s decree.

“Yes, Alistair, I am.”  Morrigan’s tone was brusque, and Caitwyn laid her fingers against his lips, stilling his objections.  “I expect that expansion you spoke of to be built by that time. Kieran is far too old to share a room with me now.  Moreover, I would not let another deliver this child. You will simply have to endure my presence.”

“Work, work, work,” he muttered, only just loud enough for Caitwyn to hear.

“We’d be happy to have you here, Morrigan.  I know Kieran will be excited to see you.” Caitwyn hoped that the change of subject would forestall a possible bout of bickering. As entertaining as it was, and though they no longer sniped at each other so cruelly, she did not want to mar the happiness that had begun to settle about her.

“And I him.  If you would, allow me to tell him myself.  I shall write to him, and to you. There are some tinctures that will help, with morning sickness and to help the baby grow strong.  I would provide you with some illustrations, to ensure you gather the correct herbs and roots.”

“Of course,” Caitwyn agreed.  There was one last question, however, to ask, another to consider:  _ Kieran _ .  “Morrigan, do you think Kieran will be alright?  That I’m having a baby?” Silence filled the room, and only the pulsing light inside the crystal let Caitwyn know it was still working.  Alistair shot her an uncertain glance, the idea not having occurred to him before now. Kieran had rearranged the world to allow himself three parents, but a baby might threaten his picture of the world.

“Yes, I believe so.  You have given him no cause to doubt your love for him, and this should not change that.  I see no reason why he should be concerned.” Though the words were dry and logical, Morrigan spoke slowly, the words carefully weighed and measured.   Reassured, Caitwyn let out a breath. It might still go poorly, but Morrigan still knew Kieran best, and Caitwyn hoped their son would not feel that this baby threatened their love of him.

Hearts could contain infinity, if allowed to do so.

“Good, that’s good.  I suppose we’ll see you at mid-summer, then,” Caitwyn said by way of good-bye.

“Indeed, you shall, my friend,” Morrigan returned, and the light in the crystal began to ebb, blinking slower and slower until the crystal was only lit by mundane sources of light.  Tucking the crystal to her chest, she looked up at Alistair, her lover and the father of her child, a smile curving her lips.

“We’re going to have a baby,” she breathed, green eyes bright.  Her fear washed away, she trembled and tested the waters of her heart, finding a burgeoning excitement, a trepidatious joy just waiting to come forth.  All that she had been too afraid to feel now just at the edges of her fingertips. If she reached for it. Alistair, however, seeing her letting go of the anxieties that had gripped her, did not wait.  He picked her up and held her to him. Dancing around the house with her in his arms, he whooped with unrestrained glee, an exuberant, joyous grin on his face, all his suppressed excitement coming to the fore.

“We’re going to have a baby!” he enthused, and kissed her soundly, tenderly.  He laughed into their kiss, the delight catching him up all over again, spilling over and buoying her up as well.  She felt like she was on a cloud, or walking on water she was so light, so happy; it was unlike anything she had ever felt.  Like a locked door inside of her finally opening, and she had dredged up the courage to walk through it into a bright, new world.

Inside of her was a life, a new life.   Growing, small and fragile, but oh Maker, what possibilities it contained.  It contained the world.

 

* * *

 

In her apartments in Val Royeaux, Morrigan set down the sending crystal, the barest hint of a smile playing about her lips.  She had known this was a possibility, though her friend being taken by surprise was in and of itself unexpected. However, she supposed after ten years without a monthly, even the most thoughtful of women might let a few things slip by their notice.  Still, Morrigan’s heart rejoiced for her friend, her sister, to have what she had long been denied. 

“Sentiment.  Love,” she said to herself, her voice barely disturbing the air of her well-appointed rooms.  “Such power in these things, though they are soft. The soft power that is the strongest of them all, for it binds us with a touch too light to notice until it is too late.  Too long it took me to learn that, but learn it I did. Thanks to you.”

Satisfied that she had fulfilled her duties to Caitwyn, Morrigan took up her staff and wrapped a cloak about her shoulders.  She had tarried too long, avoiding the will of Flemeth, or Mythal, or whatever one should call the spirit she held now. It would take some doing to complete her tasks before mid-summer, but she would do this.  To see Kieran again, to keep her promises to Caitwyn, she would not flag or fail. 

Changing her shape to that of a raven, she took flight, and was once again reassured that she had made the correct choice to leave Kieran in that village.  This was no life for a child to know, and she hoped that when she saw him again, he had not grown too much.

 

* * *

 

Kieran hefted his pack up higher on his back as he walked home.  Violet, never able to confine herself to a walking pace, trotted ahead sniffing, then circled back and sniffed some more, stopping occasionally to butt her head under his hand. 

The sun was just starting to set as the days were growing longer, and he liked to get home before dark.  Not that he was afraid, just that it was easier to follow the path home, and not nearly so cold. He was very, very glad Da and  _ Mamae _ had gotten him winter clothing, complete with a thick jacket and furred boots when he had first arrived.  It wasn’t so bad going back and forth from the house to the Chantry—the path was clear with foot of snow to either side serving as a clear boundary—but he very much needed them when  _ Mamae _ took him into the forest and the big snow drifts that piled up between the sleeping trees. 

When the house came into view, Violet picked up her pace and started barking.  She was the noisiest and cheekiest of all the puppies, and Da said of course that was the one Kieran picked.  Oak barked in response, a deep boom compared to his smaller sister’s yip. Kieran grinned to hear it, because that meant  _ Mamae _ was already home.  He didn’t know where Da was, probably still on his rounds.  Most days he came home after dark, just in time for supper, which meant Kieran hadn’t been learning to fight as much.  But Da still made time, caging an afternoon or morning here and there to teach him, and Kieran had even used his  _ real _ sword once.  Only for practice strikes in the air, though.

Up the three small steps to the door, Kieran tapped his boots on the stone to dislodge most of the snow, and then went inside.  The house smelt  _ amazing _ , fresh bread and chicken, he thought.  For a moment it smelled so good he got distracted from everything he had to do, but before it was too late and Violet tracked in snow, he caught her by her collar even as Oak checked his littermate with his shoulder, keeping her from running straight to her food bowl. 

“Violet, stay,” he ordered, and she grumbled, but did as she was told.  As he removed his boots, he took note of the laundry that had been hung to dry by the hearth.  Briefly, he wondered if he’d missed washing day, but it was bedclothes pinned to the thin rope that hung suspended between the support stands of the house.  Normally  _ Mamae _ had a schedule for washing, but this wasn’t part of it.  Then he was jarred out of his pondering by  _ Mamae _ ’s lilting voice.

“You have a good day,  _ da’len _ ?” she asked, giving Oak a pat on his head in thanks for his assistance with his unruly sister. 

“Yeah!  Sister Tannis got a new history book, but it’s not just any book.  It’s about  _ art _ history, and it’s really amazing,” he enthused.  All sorts of new ideas ran through his head about what to draw next.  Mother had told him to draw what he had seen in his dreams, to help him face down the scary things, and he hadn’t stopped drawing since.  Now he could draw things he made up on his own, and he had begun to be a little bit proud of what he had drawn. 

The picture of the house he had made now sat in a little frame on the mantle, painted and everything. 

“Well, don’t just leave it at that.  You have to tell me what’s so amazing about it.”  _ Mamae  _ drifted back to the hearth while Kieran divested himself of his pack and winter clothes.  It was warm and cozy in the house,  _ Mamae _ never letting the fire go out, and Da making sure they had a good supply of firewood.  He had even shown Kieran how to chop wood, but Kieran was still a little small to get a proper swing up to split the logs.  Da promised he’d get bigger soon, something about Da not getting his height until later, too.

“There are reproductions in it!  Of some famous paintings, and even some drawings of statues that are in Val Royeaux.  And they’re really good, because I’ve seen those statues. But even  _ better _ , there’s all sorts of information about the artist and why they made it,” Kieran said while he set the table.  Then the door banged open again, and Da tromped in, repeating the process Kieran had just finished. He was holding something, probably from the storeroom because it was in a burlap bag.  When he saw Kieran though, he swiftly held it behind his back as if that would keep Kieran from noticing.

Da wasn’t very good at hiding things.

“Hey there, you have a good day?” he asked, stepping around the dogs to hand whatever he was carrying to  _ Mamae _ .  Kieran thought about peering around the furniture to see what it was, but he decided not to. 

“Yeah, I was just telling  _ Mamae _ about it,” he replied, and then launched into his explanation again, but going into more detail now that they were both home.  He’d tell Mother, too. She liked it when he drew things in their letter-book, and he’d drawn her pictures of his friends and the dogs, and all the animals he saw, and the ocean and the trees in the forest.  She’d be pleased for him, he knew, still able to learn even though he wasn’t in Val Royeaux anymore.

Then  _ Mamae _ declared dinner ready, and Da put everything on the table, taking the heavy pot out of  _ Mamae’s _ hands as soon as he could.  That wasn’t strange, but  _ Mamae _ looked a little frustrated by Da doing everything for her.  Like always, they took turns serving themselves from the pot, and Kieran grinned when he saw it was chicken and mushrooms, his favorite, something Mother had made for him from when he had been little.   _ Mamae _ had gotten the recipe from Mother, and though it didn’t taste exactly the same, it made him feel the same.

He was halfway through his dinner when he realized that no one was talking.  Normally they talked about their days at supper, but Da and  _ Mamae  _ were quiet, glancing at each other and watching him like he was ill, all attentive and careful.  Kieran met their eyes, and then Da looked right at  _ Mamae _ , telling her something without having to say anything.  Kieran had never met people who could do that like they could.  Then  _ Mamae _ set her fork down and held Kieran’s gaze, putting her small, dark hand over his.

“Kieran, there’s something your Da and I have to tell you, but before we do, we want you know that we love you very much, alright?” Her question set of a spark of worry in his mind.  They weren’t going to make him leave, he didn’t think. Though, this  _ was _ his favorite supper, and he thought Da might have brought in pears, and he  _ loved _ baked pears.  They were, what was the phrase Master Tethras would use?  They were  _ buttering him up _ for something.

“We love you, and you aren’t going anywhere, and neither are we,” Da told him, placing a comforting hand on Kieran’s shoulder.  Kieran nodded, grateful for that, though having to leave wasn’t likely. Da knew to make sure that he didn’t think something like that for too long.

“Alright, so, what is it?” Kieran asked.  Even though he knew they were trying to set him at ease, he had a little sliver of worry in his belly.  Not bad, he told himself. And if something had happened to Mother, they would have told him right way. Right?

“Well, it’s,”  _ Mamae _ started to say, glancing at Da and smiled a secret kind of smile, all warm and soft.  Then she breathed in and turned back to Kieran. “I’m pregnant. That means—”

“I’m going to be a big brother!” Kieran burst out, all his anxious flutters banished in an instant by that news.  He nearly stood out of his chair he was so excited.  _ Mamae _ blinked and Da chuckled, but he didn’t pay that any mind.  “I promise, I’ll be the best big brother  _ ever _ .  Da, I need to train more, so I can protect the baby, too.  Do you think it’ll be a boy or a girl? What if its twins? It could be both!”

“Twins, huh?” Da asked, gazing at  _ Mamae _ , a thoughtful gleam in his eyes.

“Oh Maker, please no,”  _ Mamae _ muttered, but her relieved smile made him understand the dinner and his parents’ quiet.  They’d been worried that he’d be upset about a baby. Worried that he would feel like he wasn’t going to be loved the same.  Words didn’t seem enough to tell them that they didn’t need to worry, so instead he got up and hugged  _ Mamae _ .  She held him close and tight, and she smelled like flowers.  Even in winter.

“I really am excited, you know,” he told them, wanting to reassure them that they didn’t need to be concerned about him.  He was going to be an older brother. It was his job to worry about his soon-to-be baby brother or sister. Or both!

“I can see that,”  _ Mamae _ said, holding his face in her hands, tears in her eyes.  Happy tears, he knew. “You have a good heart,  _ da’len _ .  Don’t you ever let anyone take it from you.”

“Um, I won’t,” he said, then he smirked.  “That sounds painful anyway.” Da barked out a laugh, and Kieran glanced at his father, proud that he could make him laugh.  Da  _ was _ funny, even in Mother didn’t see it that way.

“Sweet Andraste, the pair of you,”  _ Mamae _ complained, but there wasn’t any real anger in it.  Their grins grew wider at that, and  _ Mamae _ shook her head, waving her hand about as if she could command them to stop.  “You should talk to your Mother, Kieran, now that you know. She has some news for you, too.”

“Really?  Can I be excused, then?” he asked, dancing from foot to foot.  His parents must have talked today, using their sending stone, for that message to be passed along.  He didn’t often talk to Mother directly, and this would be a rare treat. Better than the pears. Or about the same, anyway.

_ Mamae _ made really good baked pears.

“Yes, but first, come here, pup.”  Da held his arms out, and Kieran hugged his father.  Quietly, though probably not quiet enough for  _ Mamae _ not to hear, Da told him, “You’re a good big brother already, and a wonderful son.  We’re so lucky to have you.”

“Thanks,” Kieran said, and then, unable to help himself, pulled back and looked his father in the eye.  “You’re an alright Da.”

_ Mamae  _ snorted, snickered, and then, unable to hold it in, threw her head back and laughed.  Da’s mouth dropped open in surprise, and he held a hand to his heart as though he’d been wounded.  Though Kieran thought he caught a flicker of amused pride in his father’s eyes. Either way, Kieran felt pretty smug about that one.  He hadn’t grown up joking about, but with Da and even  _ Mamae _ a little bit, that was how they talked.  Silly words to dress up heartfelt meaning.  It was very different from Mother’s directness, but he had gotten used to it.

“He got you.  He absolutely got you,”  _ Mamae  _ chortled.  She leaned heavily on her arms and her shoulders shook from laughter.

“Yes, yes, I know.  Now I know how it feels, very well done.  Now go talk to your mother,” Da told him sternly, but there was playfulness underneath his words.  Kieran let out a proud laugh, and headed for his room. Then Da called out, “And we’ll start early for training tomorrow, if that’s what you want!”

“I do!” Kieran replied, signaling for Violet to follow him.   He shut the door as the dog hopped up on his bed, and she turned about in circles to find just the right spot.  Kneeling, he lifted up a floorboard, getting into the cache  _ Mamae _ had made for him, and taking out his sending crystal and his letter-book.  He activated the crystal as he settled against Violet on his bed, and Mother answered.   He told her all about  _ Mamae _ , even though she already knew.

“And Da’s going to help train me more, so I can help protect the baby,” he finished in a rush.  Mother sighed. She wasn’t against him learning to fight, instead telling him that it was good that he was learning to defend himself.  Especially after he’d told her about the Harvest Festival. While she didn’t have any qualms about non-magical methods of fighting, she seemed resigned to the fact that he was learning from Da.

“I am certain you will be an excellent elder brother, my son.  Though be aware, newborns are not terribly good playmates,” Mother told him, and Kieran was glad the crystal only sent sound so she didn’t see him roll his eyes. 

“I know, Mother.  I’m just really excited, aren’t you?  You should see Da and  _ Mamae. _  They’re so happy,” he said, unable to wipe the grin off his face.  “I’m happy, too.”

“I shall see them, and you soon enough.  T’is why I wished to speak with you, Kieran.  I shall be returning to visit, come mid-summer,” Mother said, and he clutched the sending crystal, his heart giving a happy lurch.

“Really?  Mother, I’ve missed you,” he said, blinking his tears away, missing her terribly all of a sudden.  He didn’t regret living here, with having a home and friends and Violet and everything. And he didn’t always think about how much he missed Mother, except at times like this, when he remembered how long it had been since they had been together.

“And I you, my little man,” she said, voice warm and gentle, a voice she only ever used for him.  And  _ Mamae _ sometimes.  But this was better than anything he’d ever dreamed.  He’d have his family all together, like before Mother left, but this time they would all  _ know _ they were family. 

He could hardly wait.

 

* * *

 

Alistair curled around Caitwyn in their bed that night under the copious blankets she required to stay warm in winter, his hand spread out over her belly.  He couldn’t help it, touching her where a life grew, the life they had made together. He couldn’t stop grinning either, marveling anew every time he thought of the little life that grew inside of the woman he loved; so small that life, and yet already things were so different.   _ Their _ baby, hopefully as smart as Cait, and without his prominent nose.  Poor Kieran would have to live with that particular feature. 

Tomorrow, he’d have to leave the house on his rounds, but he wished he could stay here with her.  Then it struck him. She’d still probably go out into the forest, hunting, which was dangerous, and he got caught up in an internal debate about bringing  _ that _ up at this point.  Probably better not to.  So instead, he continued to run his hand over her stomach, wondering when she’d start to show.  She was rather small, so it might be sooner rather than later.

“Too early to tell people yet.  Other people, that is. Bad luck,” she said, her lilting voice breaking the still hush of the night.  Her green eyes gleamed with reflected light from the one flickering candle. It would burn itself out soon enough, and neither of them seemed to be much in the mood for sleep.  Then she sighed, eyes staring past the ceiling. “Papa would like to know. Shianni, too, I expect.”

“Why can’t they?” he asked, even though he knew all her reasons.  He hadn’t brought it up yet, with everything that had been going on, but Cait had avoided her family more with each passing year after the Blight had ended.  It was not because she didn’t love them, quite the opposite. Moreover, he knew how she hated being in Alienages and returning to the place she had grown up had been more difficult as she grew into the role of Warden-Commander and arlessa.  So her guilt for not seeing them grew with every passing season, building up another barrier between her and her family. He was starting to wonder if their latest turns just gave her more of an excuse to avoid them, this time in the name of safety and security.

“Too dangerous, you know that.  Especially now,” she said, not having to say the rest.  Two children of Theirin blood hiding in a remote village.  Two former Wardens with a secret that some in the Order would kill and torture for, and had done the latter already.  He sighed, putting that time out of his mind for the moment. The dungeons under Weisshaupt were best left to the past, where dark things lived.  Such things didn’t belong in a world where his children would grow up.

He wanted to say there was a way, but he knew better than to bring it up now.  They would never be completely safe, he knew that, but he suspected that her oh-so-logical reasons were another cover for how she’d mired herself in guilt regarding her family.

“At least Kieran’s excited,” he said, changing tactics.  She always knew what he was up to, but she allowed the distraction to work all the same.

“He is, isn’t he?”  She rolled over, turning into his embrace and pressed her lips to his collarbone.  “He’s not prepared for what a newborn means, though. Sleepless nights, feedings, changing nappies, the little thing getting sick and crying, and the mess.  Oh, the mess. And the noise. Babies would keep up half the Alienage most nights, all the crying. One would set another off, through the walls.”

“ _ He’s _ not prepared?  How do you think  _ I _ feel now?” he asked her, her litany breaking him out of his idyllic picture of simply getting to hold his child, to watch that child grow, to be there for all the first moments of its life.  That soft, perfect little world he had imagined was suddenly replaced by visions of dirty nappies, spit up all over their clothes, and a baby that wouldn’t stop crying. And yet he still smiled, and his heart danced joyfully in his chest.

“You know, if you were actually scared, you should look more like it.  As it is, I think you’re even happy about being spat up on,” she groused, poking him in the chest.  He frowned at her, feigning offence that he hadn’t been scared before. He had been scared, scared for her and for what she might go through in all of this.  It had to have been a terrible thing to consider the possibility that her own body would betray her like that. They had assurance it wouldn’t, though, and that cleared the way for breathless wonder.  A baby, a little bundle of terror and joy all at once.

“I think I’m happy and scared at the same time, honestly,” he said softly, gently.  She needed to know he didn’t just see the good side, that he was there with her, at her side, facing what she faced.  It’s what they had always done. “But that’s the best kind of scared right? And at least we can be scared and happy and everything together.”

“This has a familiar feel to it, then,” she retorted, and he snorted.  Terrified together, facing down darkspawn and monsters worse than that over the years, but always together.  Even when apart, together. He wouldn’t have it any other way.

 

* * *

 

Caitwyn let her eyes go out of focus, Alistair finally asleep beside her, his skin warm under her hands.  The candle had burned out, but she could still see by the light of the moon and stars streaming in through the window shutters.  Could still see the outlines of things, the shapes of how things were. What kept her awake was the shape of things to come. Another mad day, after she had thought mad days behind her.

It was joyful madness that lifted and swelled, carrying them all forward, but she knew not where.

She did wish she could tell her father, tell Shianni.  She wished she could talk to Papa, ask him how to do all sorts of things she had forgotten how to do.  Certainly her friends among the village women would know, but it would not be the same. There were other concerns of course.  If preparing dinner was anything to go by, Alistair might try to keep her from doing  _ anything _ .  An entire pregnancy coddled and wrapped in cotton loomed before her, and she knew she was going to have to work quickly to prevent that.  Then there were the supplies they would need: clothing, nappies, a crib, and maybe a goat, in case her milk dried up. She was not exactly well endowed, and it could be necessary.  Better to have it and not need it than the other way around.

Yet none of that could take the edge off her slowly building excitement, like a dry riverbed swelling with rain water. First a trickle, barely making it over the rocks, until now, when it felt like she would break the banks of herself.  Shifting Alistair’s hand, she let her fingers trace over her stomach, then lower to where her womb was. There was nothing to feel yet; a month was far too early to feel any movement or even a bump.

But the child—his baby,  _ their _ baby—was there.  Undeniably there. She knew it, in her blood and in her bones, she knew, and cautiously she began to dream.


	13. Across that which Divides

“Keep your guard up, Kieran,” Alistair admonished.  They faced off, practice weapons in hand, in the waning afternoon winter sunlight on the village green.  Though it wasn’t exactly green at the moment, it was relatively clear of snow and somewhat sheltered by the wind off the ocean by the bulk of the Chantry and the line of low fishermen sheds by the docks.  Thankfully, the snow had abated somewhat as well, even though they were well into Wintermarch.

“Sorry, Da.  Tired,” Kieran said, the heavy wooden practice sword loose in his hand.  Alistair gently tapped Kieran’s wrists with the tip of his own practice weapon.  Kieran exhaled slowly, and his lips flattened into a thin, determined line as he readjusted his grip.

Since Kieran had asked to pick up the pace on his training, Alistair had ensured they’d practiced every day after Kieran’s lessons were out.  In the month since, Alistair was proud at how far along Kieran had come. He wasn’t a naturally gifted swordsman, but he was diligent, even practicing on First Day before running off to join his friends.  That had been a sight, to see his son puffed up with pride in his growing skill and excited to spend time with his friends. It made Alistair wonder what kind of a life his new child would have in this village.  A happy one, he hoped, and an older brother who loved him or her already. Everything Alistair had never had as child.

Breaking himself out of his reverie, Alistair kept his expression as neutral as possible and attempted to sound appropriately authoritative.  “One more pass, then, but we—”

“Finish strong, I know,” Kieran interrupted.  Alistair grinned at how Kieran gave just as much lip during training as he had done as a boy.  The ability to keep his mouth shut had not been his strong suit, even when it would have been better for him to do so.  

Alistair dropped into a half crouch, readying his shield, and Kieran hefted his, a smaller version of Alistair’s own and weighted for his size.  For a beat, they faced off, and then Kieran shifted his weight, stepping forward with now-smooth footwork, his practice sword going through a precise series of strikes.  Alistair paced backwards, deflecting some hits off his sword, catching others on his shield. After several paces, Alistair shifted his weight and drove forward while Kieran moved backwards.  Alistair repeated the same series of strikes, forcing Kieran to defend. His son’s black eyebrows were knotted in concentration, but he kept his form, and even better remembered to keep his breathing even.  He’d been holding his breath while he concentrated, and that was a good way to end up on the ground. Then the pass was over, both of them breathing hard in the biting winter air, their breath steaming from them.  Unlike their first practice, Kieran sheathed his practice sword and stowed his shield properly instead of letting his equipment fall to the ground. His endurance was improving markedly, and Alistair thought Kieran might be up to some constrained bouts of sparring soon.

“How’s that for strong?”  A proud grin broke across Kieran’s face, and he stood tall, his head held high.  There was a note of pleased challenge in his son’s voice, and Alistair wrapped an arm around his son’s shoulders, squeezing tight for a moment.   

“I’d say you did great, pup.”  Alistair let his pride show. He didn’t want Kieran to have a repeat of his own childhood experiences.  The loneliness and derision and belief in his own inadequacy. It had taken looking at himself through Cait’s eyes to see himself as good enough as he was.

Kieran beamed at the compliment, and like every time he made Kieran smile, Alistair felt as though he’d produced gold out of thin air.  Resisting the urge to squeeze Kieran in a crushing hug, Alistair let him go and they gathered up their heavy, fur-lined cloaks. No longer exerting themselves in sword practice, the chill crept through their sturdy, padded jerkins and freezing the sweat on their brows.

“Hey, how about we get something warm to drink before we head home?” he asked.  Kieran raised his brows curiously. Alistair knew Kieran had noted his unusual behavior, because normally he sped home to see Cait, to hold her and press his hand over her belly and marvel at her.  However, he had been mulling over a particular problem since Cait had refused to contact her family about her pregnancy, and he thought he had a solution. There was just one thing he had to get straightened away first.

“Are you buttering me up for something again?”  Kieran’s tone was teasingly suspicious, but he allowed Alistair to lead him to The Mermaid’s Rest.  Once they passed the lee of the Chantry the scent of the ocean hit them but the docks themselves were fairly quiet.  With the early winter nights, most the fishermen were done for the day and only a few stragglers were left reeling in their nets.

“Of course.   Bribery is always the best policy.”  His grin took the edge off of Kieran’s skepticism, and they entered the pub, the malty warmth enveloping them like a blanket.  A few of the men, and some women, turned to see who entered, and father and son earned their share of welcoming grins. Then he caught Paedrick’s eye.  “A couple of warm ciders, if you would!”

“Coming up!” the burly red-head replied as he poured another man a beer.  Alistair guided Kieran to a far table, a little corner spot where they could talk quietly and not be overheard.  No sooner did they sit down than Paedrick appeared, two tankards of warmed cider in hand. He set them down on the table with a nod before leaving.

Kieran didn’t have to be told to start in on his drink, and Alistair bought himself a little bit of time by taking a sip.  The cider was spiced with cinnamon and nutmeg, and just shy of too hot. Perfect on a day like today, and it would certainly help warm them up, not to mention keep them warm on the walk home.

“Alright, it’s like this.  I think I know how to let your _mamae_ ’s family know about her and the baby, and come to visit, without getting her mad at me,” Alistair said, then paused, peering thoughtfully at his half-drunk cider.  “No, correction. She’s going to be mad at me regardless, pretty sure there’s no way around that. That’s not what I wanted to talk to you about, though, son.”

“It’s because you’d have to tell them about me, isn’t it?  The story for the village, they wouldn’t believe it because they know you, so you have to tell them the real one.”  There was no anger in Kieran’s voice, or sadness, just understanding. Too much understanding for a young boy, but then, Kieran had not always been only a young boy.  The wisdom beyond his years was the price their son paid for their lives, and though Kieran didn’t begrudge it of any of them, Alistair knew some things could never be repaid.

“I would, yes.  But they wouldn’t be angry at you.  They’re good people, and I’m sure they’ll like you.  If anything, they’ll be angry at me, and I can handle that.”  Or he hoped he could. He thought about how Cyrion and Shianni would react.  Shianni might be more easily won over by Kieran’s generous heart and by how much Cait loved him.  Cyrion, however. Alistair tamped down the apprehension at facing down Cait’s father over this. Cyrion was a generous man, but when it came to his daughter, he did not brook any nonsense.  That, however, was not the point of this conversation.

“What I don’t want is to talk about you, about all that, if you don’t want me to,” he continued, fidgeting with the tankard, twisting it back and forth on the table.  It left rings of condensation on the wood

“You’re asking my permission?” Kieran asked, seeing directly to the heart of the matter.  He was like his mother in that, but where Morrigan would have scoffed or blustered, Kieran considered.   _That_ was more like Cait than anything else, his quiet and careful reactions, and Alistair wondered if there was more to Kieran calling Cait _Mamae_ than love alone could account for.

“I am,” Alistair replied solemnly.

“It would make _Mamae_ happy right?  To have her father and her cousin come here?” Kieran pressed, cocking his head curiously.

“It really would.  Your _mamae_ hasn’t seen them in a long time, for all sorts of reasons, but those really don’t matter right now.  The guilt she feels for not seeing them, it’s only going to get worse if she keeps hiding from them.” He gave Kieran the bare bones of the problem without going into too much detail, because it wasn’t his place to give up Caitwyn’s secrets to their son.  However, Kieran’s brows furrowed at his explanation.

“You make it sound like she’s afraid of her family, or seeing them at least, but she’s not a coward.”  Kieran’s tone turned defensive, and the firelight made the shadows on his face deepen. Alistair shook his head, laying his hands flat on the table and leaned forward, keeping his voice low.

“The last thing _Mamae_ is, is a coward,” he said firmly, catching his son’s eyes, so like his own.  “She’s faced down a lot of her fears. She’s literally fought them, but it’s hard for her when she thinks she’s to blame for something.  As for why she thinks that about her family, that’s nothing to do with you or me, but the only way to fix it is to prove to her that the picture that she has in her head isn’t right.  Been down this road once or twice with her, but I don’t want you to worry about me or her, alright? I want to know if _you_ are alright with this.”

Alistair righted himself, leaning back his chair to take another sip of cider, cooler now, and allowed Kieran time to think.  He watched his son work through the situation in his mind, chewing on his bottom lip as he thought.

“I think so.”  Kieran spoke slowly, giving each word weight, as if considering everything one final time.  Then he nodded decisively. “No, I know I’m alright with it. But I want to explain me to them.  I don’t think they should be mad at you, and I’ll tell them that.” Then his young face split into a cheeky grin, and he said, “I probably can’t help you with _Mamae_ , though.  I’d just run and hide if I were you.”

A resigned chuckle escaped him at Kieran’s accurate assessment of Caitwyn’s likely reaction to his scheme.  Opening up old wounds was never easy, and Caitwyn’s tendency to hide from her problems allowed them to fester.  He’d thought that she’d overcome that habit, but recent events spoke to the contrary. She would do anything, find a way around any obstacle for someone she loved.  She’d done it for him multiple times, and for Kieran, too. But for herself? She still held back, and it was maybe past time this old heartache was put to rest. He could handle the consequences.  Maybe.

Though Alistair would have to weather his own storm, Kieran’s agreement and willingness to take on the unknown of Cait’s family made him thankful yet again that this boy was in their lives.  For all the madness around the end of the Blight, a few good things had come from the darkest parts of it. Kieran, with his generous heart, was chief among them, and Alistair’s chest constricted think of a life without his son in it.

“That is pretty much my plan,” he quipped, pushing past that choking moment.  A grin flashed across his face, and he raised his tankard. Kieran mimicked him, and they toasted without saying what to, but Alistair certainly knew what he was grateful for at the moment. “But you don’t need to step in on my behalf, son.  That’s my fight, not yours. Now, we better finish these and go home.”

They drank the rest of their ciders quickly, and Alistair left a few coins on the table as they left.  Paedrick waved them out, and then it was back into the cold. The wind had picked up and with the sun fully set there was nothing to take the edge off the depths of winter.  He turned up the hood of his cloak, Kieran doing the same, and the lad kept close to his side as they followed the path out of the village.

“Da,” Kieran said, breath steaming in the night, the puffs of white drifting up to the grey, billowing clouds above.  Alistair eyed those clouds thoughtfully, wondering if they were due for another round of snow storms after the clear weather they’d been having recently.

“Hm?”  Yes, probably more snow, he thought, only giving Kieran half his attention.  He could smell it on the air now that he was past the cozy paths of the village and the wood smoke that curled up from the houses there.  In spite of being stationed at Vigil’s Keep, his orders as a Warden had kept him on the road often enough to develop a few knacks for wilderness survival.

“How do you know that this is the right thing to do?  I mean, if _Mamae_ isn’t going to write to them herself, why do you think you should?” Kieran asked, and that brought his attention sharply back to his son.  Kieran kicked at the snow drifts that lined the path to the house, Violet for once not tumbling about him. She couldn’t be around while they practiced, or she would constantly get between Kieran and Alistair, trying to protect the boy.  A good instinct, but not helpful for learning how to fight.

“I don’t, not for sure,” he admitted.  Slinging an arm around Kieran’s shoulders, Alistair let his cloak drape over them both.  “We all just try to our best for those we love, and sometimes that means taking a bit of a risk.”

“Like how you both took a risk for me?”  Kieran’s voice was small, again too aware of the world around him for his years. Alistair rested his gloved hand on his son’s head, watching Kieran’s cold-reddened face plunge back into thought.   

“Something like that yes,” he said, and Alistair saw the shift in his son’s expression.  The same determined thinning of his lips and the square set of his shoulders. Kieran had decided something, though what exactly that was Alistair didn’t know.  He was sure he’d find out eventually.

 

* * *

 

 

Kieran followed _Mamae_ as she stepped deftly between the trees, a mix of pines and oaks and elms, the snow not nearly as deep now that they were under cover.  The grey light of the early winter morning only barely broke through the canopy of bare branches overhead. The dogs sniffed along behind them, and Kieran did his best to keep up and move like she did.  He could be kind of quiet, but not as quiet as her. They were bundled up against the cold, wearing thick pants and heavy boots, coat and cloak both to ward off the chill. The snows had come back along with freezing winds, but today was the calmest one in a long time, and that meant it was safe enough to check the traps.   _Mamae_ had her bow and her dagger, just in case, and Kieran had decided to wear his sword, too.  Not that he thought he could hunt with a sword, but he liked getting to wear it around and there wasn’t much chance to do that in the village.

“Kieran, I know your da is up to something.”   _Mamae_ spoke softly, and Kieran froze like a startled deer.  It had seemed so strange the first time he’d seen such a large animal going so still when it knew it was being hunted.  Now it made sense. They had no idea what to do, and so they froze trying to think or see where the threat was coming from. But Kieran wasn’t a deer.  He was a person and he was pretty sure _Mamae_ wouldn’t let it go if he ran.  Not that she could catch him anymore.  

No, bad idea, he told himself.

“Um,” was the best he could come up with.  He couldn’t _lie_ , not to her.  She'd be able to tell anyway.  She turned back to him, her eyebrows arched in sympathy.  Stepping beside him, she looped her arm through his and headed further into the forest.  Walking like this, he realized they were nearly of a height now, and it would be strange to one day be looking _down_ at her.

“And that confirms that he’s pulled you into whatever he’s cooked up.”  She paused for a moment and let out a sharp huff. “ _Lethallin_ , I’m pregnant not blind.  Or deaf. Or stupid. I’m not going to ask you to betray your da’s trust.  I know he wouldn’t ask you to do something wrong, but I’m not sure it’s fair of him to ask you to keep a secret from me.”

The sound of his footsteps and Violet crashing through the winter-dry undergrowth was loud in ears, and cold air pricked his face.  Was she right? Was Da being unfair to _him_?  Kieran didn’t think so.  Da had tried to be as fair as he could, asking his permission and everything.

He started as _Mamae_ brushed away a lock of hair away from his cheek.  It was getting long again, and she’d probably cut it for him soon.  “Are you alright, _da’len_?  You don’t have to tell me, but if something is troubling you—”

“I’m alright,” he said slowly.   _Mamae_ gave him a Look, then, and Kieran suddenly knew why Da tried to avoid them.  It was like she was looking right through his eyes and into his head.

“Really, I am,” he insisted.  “I’ve just been thinking a lot about everything.”  That made the Look go away immediately, and she squeezed their gloved hands together, as if she could press all her love of him through the leather.

“Well, there’s been a lot to think about,” she allowed, her voice gentle.  Gentle and worried for him. It was strange, having only ever known her as someone who cared about him, to also know what she had done during the Blight, to know the stories they told about her.  Stories that got her all wrong. “Anything in particular that’s been on your mind?”

“No, just it’s a quiet kind of day.  A thinking day, if that makes sense?”  His voice rose with the question, and she nodded in understanding.  She let his hand go and then took him by the shoulders, turning him to face her.

“It does.  But Kieran, even if the thoughts are uncomfortable, you can talk to me.”  Then she sighed and muttered, “I really _am_ turning into my father.”

This wasn’t the first time she’d said that, _I’m turning into my father_ .  It made him curious.  He had met Grandmother, and he still wasn’t sure what to think of her.  She had taken the dreams from him, and he had been grateful for that. But he had the impression that Mother had not liked Grandmother very much.  But _Mamae_ did love her family, even though she hadn’t seen them for a long time.  He wondered if they would see him as family, too, when they got here.

They had continued to walk in silence while he had followed the meandering pathways of his thought, and then curiosity won out over caution.

“Do you miss your family?”  She froze for a moment, his question catching her off guard, and he felt a little bad about that.  Quickly, he spoke again, “I’m sorry, I shouldn’t have asked.”

“No, it’s alright.” she said, turning back to him for a moment to give him a smile, letting him know she wasn’t upset.  Then she waved him on, and they had reached the first trap in her set along the game run. A rabbit hung caught in the snare, and _Mamae_ knelt next to it, her cloak brushing along the snow.  She gestured with her knife, and he knelt beside her. Flipping the knife, the hilt now extended to him and he took it, trying to line up the blade like how she had shown him.

“I miss them very much, but it’s not as simple as missing.”  Though she was right beside him, her voice sounded distant, like she was talking to someone from years ago.  He tried to concentrate on the rabbit and her words, but he slipped as he made the first cut. Before he could cut himself, she steadied his hand.  While she had said something, she hadn’t explained anything, and he thought that meant she didn’t want to. That wasn’t like her. _Mamae_ explained when she could, helped him find the answers when she couldn’t.

Kieran decided not to ask any more questions.  He hadn’t gotten any answers anyway, and he thought that maybe Da really was right.   _Mamae_ did miss her family, but she wasn’t going to let herself fix it.  She had fixed other things: she had fixed it when she and Da had been slowly dying from being Wardens, she’d fixed it when he had been scared and confused, and she’d fixed things so he could have the family _he_ wanted.

That meant it up to him and Da to fix things so she could have _her_ family back.

 

* * *

 

 

Alistair kept up the brisk pace in spite of the wind that came in right off the ocean, the freezing salt spray hitting him in the face, his cloak snapping out behind him.  Apparently, this was standard weather for Guardian in this part of Ferelden, even though Wintersend had been a week ago. The local joke was that winter had taken offense to the idea it ended so early this far south, and hung on with grim vengeance until mid-Drakon.

Alistair failed to see the humor in it, since he was out in this weather making his rounds most days.

However, he was excited to be out in it today.  He’d picked up a letter from Yena’s shop just after his birthday—Cait had made him a pie and gotten him an old Avvar idol with runes along the base to replace all the little trinkets he’d had to leave behind.  In the letter, however, was the message he had been waiting for. It had been buried in a ship’s manifest, but he’d managed to puzzle it out. Hopefully. If he’d done the cyphering right, today was the day they would arrive.  Caitwyn’s family. Alistair wanted to meet them on the road so he could get them to Cait right away. Peering into the distance, he searched for any sign of three travelers, and wondered if he’d have to be right on top of them to notice them in this gale.  Then he saw them, three small figures, bundled up against the cold.

“Alistair!” Shianni called out over the fierce wind.  She held her cloak tightly to her and broke into a trot, high stepping through the newer blanket of snow.  Barely taller than Cait, Shianni grinned to see him and embraced him as soon as she was close enough. He hugged her tight, not knowing how much he had missed Caitwyn’s family until he had seen them.  They had welcomed him into their home without a single qualm, him, a human man, after all they had been through. They had welcomed him because Cait loved him, and that had been enough for them.

He prayed it would be enough again.  Not for his sake, but for Kieran’s. And Cait’s.

“Shianni, ah, it’s good to see you.  And you look like you’ve been doing well.”  He hugged her back, the woman who had been practically a little sister to Cait.  She grinned, giving him a playful nudge, just like a little sister would. Then Cyrion and Zevran drew even with them, the older elf not keen on running, and Zevran not keen on letting his cloak flare open to the harsh winds.

“Alistair, son, I’m so glad you wrote to us,” he said, and Alistair was shocked at the sight of Cait’s father.  He hadn’t been a weak man, but he seemed to have aged more than the last five years alone could account for. Five years since he had last seen the man, Caitwyn with him on one of their infrequent visits to Denerim.  Before Anora had politely suggested Alistair not show his face in the city unless absolutely necessary. In spite of the harsh weather and what had probably been an unexpected whirlwind trip, the older elf was as calm as ever, and in his eyes Alistair could see a wry amusement.  “Though it remains to be seen if my daughter will thank you. She does not like surprises.”

“Here I had thought you’d give me some reason to hope that I wouldn’t get in trouble for this,” Alistair retorted.  Cyrion merely shook his head with undisguised pity.

“Very lovely, yes, now.  I am most anxious to be out of this dreadful weather,” Zevran interjected, keeping the hood of cloak firmly up.  Alistair smirked. Zevran had never had liked the weather this far south, but he couldn’t deny the huge favor Zevran was doing for them by escorting Cyrion and Shianni all the way here.  With the former Crow watching over them, Alistair was fairly confident no one—Wardens and Queens alike—would be able to follow their trail to a sleepy little seaside village where a little family just wanted to be left alone.

“Right, come on.  We’re headed to the Chantry first.  There’s… there’s someone you need to meet before we surprise Cait.”  He led them along the road back to the village, and Shianni raised one red eyebrow, curious.  He couldn’t blame her. The letter he had sent through a series of back-channels and dead drops had little in the way of information, and even then it had been addressed to Zevran and only a singular, coded set of instructions.

“Very well.  Lead on then, son,” Cyrion said, gesturing forward, and Alistair ushered them into Devon-by-Sea.  He couldn’t help but watch them as they took in the village, and he hoped they would approve. It wasn’t far to the Chantry, but even in the winter, Devon-by-Sea put on a good show of idyllic sea-side village.  Smoke curled lazily from all the chimneys, and while most of the pathways were clear due to the foot traffic, snow blanketed the village green and all the rooftops. It looked like a place out of a storybook, where some hero would grow up until he got his call to adventure.  Only here, it was where the Hero of Ferelden had come to rest from all her adventures.

There were few people about, as it was the middle of the day and folks were at their work, either out fishing or on their farms and the children were inside at chores or lessons.  No one to give them a glance, though these days Alistair earned more friendly waves than anything else. They’d been here less than a year, and already it felt more like home than any other place he’d ever been.  A small place with small people and small problems. Problems he could help with, and room for Caitwyn to be herself in quiet spaces. Room for Kieran to grow and learn. Room for a baby, a family.

Once inside the Chantry, Zevran let out a sigh of relief.  Though the wooden siding was not warm, in and of itself, and neither was the stone floor, they were finally out of the wind.  The light of the candles filled the hall with an orange, welcoming glow, and Sister Wilamena approached.

“Sister, if you could get Kieran, that’d be much appreciated,” he said quietly.  The older sister nodded amiably, her round face betraying no curiosity.

“Of course, Sheriff Alistair,” she said politely, dipping her head before heading to the room off to the left of the altar where the children sat at their lessons.

“Sheriff?”   Shianni crossed her arms over her chest, sparing him a bemused glance, as if she were trying on a new hat that she wasn’t sure she liked the look of.

“Ah, ha, long story, and some other things you need to know first,” he hedged, and that earned him a bland expression from the bann of Denerim’s Alienage.  Shianni had never been one to let things go. It was a trait she shared with Caitwyn, and had seemingly only become more entrenched after dealing with nobles for the past decade.  Cyrion, however, was more mild mannered, and he laid a hand on his niece’s shoulder.

“I’m sure we’ll get the whole story in full time, Shianni.  Let him tell us in his own way first,” he said, and Alistair felt grateful for the older man’s patience.  Likely it was about to be pushed to its limits.

“Still, it is interesting my friend, all that you have refused, and yet, here you are.  In a position of power and authority,” Zevran said, voice quiet as he stood next to Alistair.  Alistair shrugged. Once, he could have been a king. But what would that have been? Laws, ruling, being _above_ people.  He wasn’t above people here, not even as a sheriff.  He helped, and he was one of them. That was all he had ever wanted, to be _of_ , to be _part_.  He had that here, that and more than he had ever hoped for.

Sister Wilamena reappeared; her hands tucked into the sleeves of her robes, she gave him a little nod and walked on to unlock the Mother’s office.  Then Kieran emerged, and the boy hesitated a moment before joining him, hoisting his pack up a bit higher on his back and Violet trotting along at his side.  Rather than their usual greeting of a well-flung hug, Kieran petered to a stop and glanced at the new people suddenly in his life. Kieran froze for a moment as the task he had set for himself a month previous loomed before him, made real and solid in the form of Shianni and Cyrion.  His son turned to him, a silent plea for help in his eyes.

“Right, Cyrion, Shianni, and Zevran, is it alright if we include Zevran?  I bet if you asked your—if you asked Cait she’d say he’s family, too,” he asked Kieran.  His son shifted his weight from foot to foot, as if about to drop into a fighting stance.  Violet, picking up on Kieran’s nervousness, leaned her heavy shoulder against his side. Zevran kept his expression neutral, but Alistair caught the tilt of the Crow’s head and knew what Zevran had already seen.  Cyrion and Shianni, however, were openly curious about this entirely unexpected turn.

After a moment’s consideration, Kieran gulped in a breath and answered.  His voice was quiet but clear. “Yes, I think so.”

“Good, well.  Everyone, Kieran.  Kieran, this is _Ma—_ Cait’s father, cousin, and one of our oldest friends.  Now, we should probably go to the office, where we can talk properly,” Alistair continued, giving no one time to ask questions.  Not yet. Kieran had not hugged him, but he had to do something to reassure his son. Placing a strong hand on Kieran’s back, he led them all across the short distance between the nave and the office.  The others followed and once they were inside Alistair closed the door and stayed close to Kieran. By now, Shianni and Cyrion were both frowning, not liking the secrecy with still no appearance from Caitwyn.

“You still up to this, pup?”  He kept his voice low, for Kieran’s ears, and sat next to his son in one of the four chairs in the room.  Kieran had taken the plush one. He nodded, though his hand curled into Violet’s fur as she leaned against him.

Cyrion and Shianni sat opposite them, their faces pictures of cautious concern.  They had no idea what a boy they had never met before would have to say to them, or why such a big fuss was being made.  Zevran, however, leaned against the closed door with his arms crossed and merely waited.

“Kieran wanted to tell you himself, about him.” Alistair hoped that Shianni and Cyrion would be kind to Kieran.  They would, they would, he assured himself. They were good people, and they wouldn’t take out any anger they had on an innocent child.  It would be _Alistair_ they would get angry at.  “So I ask that you listen, and whatever he says, know that Cait loves him.  Very much.”

“We won’t interrupt, will we Shianni?”  Cyrion’s reassuring tones set the whole room at ease, and Shianni smiled at Kieran.

“Go on, Kieran,” Shianni urged.  Kieran’s glance shifted once more to him, for reassurance, and Alistair nodded, trying to give his son what support he could.

“Alright, I suppose it starts during the Blight,” Kieran began, hand still digging into Violet’s fur, but his young voice was steady and strong.  It would not be easy for him, but he had asked to explain his own existence. Alistair thought it only right that Kieran told his story in his own way.  All he could do was watch and listen and hope that his son knew he wasn’t alone.

 

* * *

 

 

“… but you can’t be mad at Da.  Not for any of it,” Kieran said, puffing out his small chest and squaring his shoulders.  When he had first seen _Mamae’s_ family in the company of Zevran, Kieran had been confused.  They were pale where _Mamae_ was dark, but then he saw that they all had the same set to their eyes, and Shianni and _Mamae_ had the same nose and chin.

Master Zevran leaned against the door of Mother Ostryd’s office, the walls crowded with bookshelves and a wardrobe for her vestments.  Kieran had never met Zevran before, but he had heard a lot of stories, mostly from Da, and the former Crow only crossed his arms and shrugged at Kieran’s explanation as if he had expected something like this all along.  Da frowned, but it wasn’t an angry one, he didn’t think. At least not at him. Kieran knew Da didn’t want to be defended like that. He’d asked Kieran not to, but he had decided that it was the right thing to do. It wasn’t Da’s fault.  It wasn’t _anyone’s_ fault.  It just _was._  Kieran wanted _Mamae_ ’s family to see that, so they could all be a family for real, too.

“That’s.  That’s almost impossible to believe, all of that,” Cyrion said, leaning back in his chair.  Grey eyebrows drawing down, _Mamae_ ’s father eyed Da, something hard around his mouth.

“Hard to believe that you would,” Shianni snapped at Da, her lip curling.  She was angry. Kieran flinched, but Da didn’t. Instead Da sat upright and squared his shoulders, facing _Mamae_ ’s family like they were magistrates come to try him for a crime he knew he didn’t commit.

“It’s true,” Da admitted.  “But that’s what happened in the past.  Cait and I, we have a life here. A life that includes Kieran, and we’re a family.  About to be a larger family, and I thought it was right to let you know. Look, we all know Cait’s a master of logically working herself into a corner, and she’s got her list of reasons why she wouldn’t send for you.  But one of them is her fear of Kieran getting hurt, for being blamed for something he had no part in. She loves Kieran. She’s his mother in every way that matters, and if you want to be mad, be mad at me, not Kieran. He’s—”

“My daughter’s son.”  Cyrion spoke gently, and Kieran wanted to leap out of his chair and hug the older elf.  He didn’t, but he did wonder if he could call Cyrion _Grandfather_.  That would be nice, to have a grandfather.  Shianni’s mouth dropped open in shock, and she was about to speak, but Cyrion shook his head.  “Who are we to judge, Shianni? What is done is done. They have found a way forward. Should we be upset at any of them for that?”

“No, no I suppose we shouldn’t.”  Shianni turned to regard Kieran for a long moment as if weighing him up, measuring him in her mind’s eye.  One hand on Violet’s reassuring shoulder, Kieran returned Shianni’s gaze, hoping that whatever she saw she didn’t disapprove of.   A smile twitched at the corner of her lips, just like _Mamae_ ’s when she was trying to be composed, and Shianni slid out of her chair to kneel beside him and hug him.  That was so unexpected that Kieran froze stock still. “Welcome to the family, Kieran.”

“Thank, thank you Lady Shianni,” he said.  She was the bann of the Alienage, and that felt proper.  Kieran heard Da sigh in relief, but Shianni’s amused snort drowned it out.

“You’re family, sweetheart.  Call me Aunty.” Kieran had never had an Aunty before, and he leaned into Aunty Shianni’s hug, wrapping his arms around her shoulders.  She patted his back and he told himself he wouldn’t cry, but he might have sniffed a little before she let him go. “Now, should we go surprise Cait?  I mean, your mother?”

_“Mamae_ ,” Kieran corrected, a big smile on his face.  They were just as Da had promised. Good people, kind people, who put family above all else.  He felt like jumping, he was so happy, but he didn’t. Instead, he looked around and saw everyone smiling, too.  It had gone alright. “I call her _mamae_.  To avoid confusion.”

“Very sensible,” Shianni agreed.

 

* * *

 

 

Caitwyn undid the drawstring on the sack of flour and scooped a portion into the small clay-fired pot she carried.  Baking the pie for Alistair’s birthday had run them out of their store in the house, and she was thankful that they had been able to barter for so much before winter had set in.  She was a bit late in getting the bread started, but she doubted the boys would mind. There were a few heels of the old batch still left that would tide them over for the time being.

Hefting her burden, she exited the root cellar and locked up behind her.  Built underneath the hill the house stood on, she and Alistair both had to work to keep the path clear as the snow piled up, even with the entrance on the leeward side of the hill.  Kicking the fresh snow down further she made her way back up to the house, pulling the hood of her cloak down over her face. The wind was cruel today, full of ice and salt, but inside the house was warm and cozy.  She very much wanted to get back inside and out of this wind.

Then she glanced down the path as if something pulled her head on a string, asking for her attention.  There she saw Alistair’s familiar form, though instead of towering over only Kieran, there were three additional huddled figures with him.  She peered through the blowing, biting snow, sucking in a hard breath when the wind clawed hoods away from faces.

“Oh, you really went ahead and did it, didn’t you, Alistair?” she bit out, and strode through the snow to confront the love of her life and the current locus of her ire.  The group noticed her approaching, and Kieran broke from them first, his face as bright as the sun that currently hid behind the snow clouds.

“ _Mamae_ !  You’ll never guess who’s here!” he exclaimed.  Even his enthusiasm couldn’t ablate her building anger.  How could he do this? The question that whirled in her mind like the snow around her face.  He _knew_ it was dangerous, and he’d done it anyway.  She knew he’d been up to something, and had even dragged Kieran into it.  From Kieran’s questions about her family she thought it might have been something like this, but she hadn’t wanted to start an argument without proof.

Well, here was her proof, and it was too late now.

“Oh, I know.”  Her voice was clipped, and Kieran stepped away from her, startled by her tone.  All but high stepping through the accumulated snow drifts, Caitwyn aimed herself at Alistair and closed the rest of the distance like a woman possessed only to be brought up short by a voice she had not heard in over five years.

“Oh, oh my little firebug.”  Papa. Papa’s voice reached her ears and through the years, and she stopped in her tracks, anger guttering out as abruptly as it had flared to life.  He wrapped his arms around her then, and she was too stunned to respond.

For moment she could not accept that her father was here.  That he was here and only saw her as he always had, _little firebug_ , not upset that she had left it so long, that she had said barely anything in her original letter save that she lived.  Lived and loved him and would not be coming back. Her anger gone, guilt crawled up from the pit of her stomach and wormed into her chest.  Guilt that she had done this to him, had made him worry, and had only sent a _letter_.  Maker what was wrong with her?  Only a letter?

“Papa.”  Her voice was small and childish to her own ears, and she hugged him back.  Then Shianni huddled close, her baby cousin’s pale forehead resting against Caitwyn’s, and Cait touched her fingertip’s to Shianni’s cheek.  Tears froze on her cheeks, making her lashes clump together, and it was difficult to open her eyes.

“Hugging in the cold, you Fereldans are completely ridiculous.  I am going to the house. It is unlocked I hope, or I shall have to break into it,” Zevran said, perfectly shattering the moment.  A dry chuckle escaped her, whether she liked it or not. Looping her arm through the crook of her father’s elbow, and taking her cousin by the hand, Caitwyn led her family home.

 

* * *

 

 

“Oh, poor Soris.”   Caitwyn chuckled as she sat at her table with her cousin, finally catching up on all the family events she had missed, such as the continuing adventures of Soris, his new wife, and their five children.  Outside the storm raged, but they had shuttered up the house. Zevran had promptly huddled next to the fire while Caitwyn had taken inventory of the extra bedding she had on hand. Thankfully, they had enough to see everyone bedded down for night.

“He’s happy though, so proud of all his little ones.  I know he’d want to be here, but he’s in Highever and has young children.  You know how that is, with Kieran now.” Shianni glanced over the couch to where Kieran sat next to Papa, watching him make dinner.  Papa had immediately taken over that task after gently displacing Zevran from the warmest spot in the house, and Caitwyn hadn’t the heart to stop him.  The house was full of the scent of stew bubbling away over the hearth, just like it had their rickety house in Denerim; a bubbling pot of stew the best method of feeding people who all kept different hours.

“I suppose I do.”  Caitwyn followed Shianni’s line of sight and smiled into her mug of tea.  Her cousin hummed happily, and gripped Caitwyn’s hand tightly with her own.

“You’re going to really know before long,” she teased, leaning in conspiratorially.  It was as if no time had passed since they had last seen each other. All the same, Caitwyn could feel the ghosts around them.  Those she had failed to save trailing through her mind like wisps: Valora, Valendrian, Nessa lost to Tevinter, so many others dead in the purge and the in Battle of Denerim.  Everything she had failed to do whispered in her mind, the food riots she couldn’t prevent, the second-class status her people still suffered, and Shianni facing it all on her own.  She could have gone back more frequently, written more, but she had made excuses, knowing that’s all they were. Excuses to not have to face her failures.

“I am at that,” Caitwyn agreed quietly.  Then she curled her fingers around Shianni’s hand, holding tight, and she said as quietly as she could.  “I’m so proud of you, Shianni. I should have been there for you, and I can’t make up for that—”

“Cait, where do you keep the spices?” her father asked, jolting her out of her conversation with Shianni.  She was about to reply when Kieran piped up.

“ _Mamae_ , Grandpa said he taught you how to cook, but Da and Uncle Zevran say you never cooked during the Blight.  Not once.” Never one to let a chance for more family go, Kieran had decided that her father was ‘Grandpa’ on the walk from the Chantry.  And since Zevran was with them, and Kieran didn’t want him to feel left out, had dubbed him ‘Uncle’ without any hesitation. Zevran hadn’t fought it.  Much. At Kieran’s obliquely stated question Zevran grinned, catching Caitwyn’s eye, his own eyes gleaming with unconcealed mirth.

“Yes, it was a most heart rending betrayal, that revelation,” Zevran said, placing a hand on Kieran’s shoulder, the former Crow’s face the very picture of heartache.  “Your _mamae_ spent the entire Blight permitting our suffering at the hands of your father, my young friend.  That she suffered, too, is some small recompense.”

“I was not _that_ bad!” Alistair interjected, voice rising in indignation.  Zevran sighed, shaking his head as though about to inform someone of a great and terrible loss.

“My friend, it is with much regret that I tell you, you most assuredly were.”  Zevran’s overacting made Kieran burst into a fit of giggles, and Shianni covered her mouth with her hand to hide her grin.

“Cait!  Defend me!” Alistair cried, flinging himself onto the couch, and pointing at Zevran as if declaring him a target for her.

“You improved over time,” she said, doing her level best to keep her face under control.  And it was true. Technically. He did improve, but then when someone started at rock bottom, there was nowhere to go save upwards.

“That is not defending me!” he charged, sinking further into the couch and crossing his arms as though he were a petulant child.  Though she knew he was half putting on a show, Caitwyn nevertheless moved to wrap her arms around his shoulders from behind the couch.  She pressed a quick kiss to his temple, and that seemed to mollify him. Kieran, ever curious about all the small stories from his parent’s past, couldn’t let this rest.

“How did you find out she could cook?” their son asked.  He leaned forward on his arms, glancing between his father and Zevran, the very picture of eager amusement.

“That would be my fault, my boy,” Papa said with a sigh, though Caitwyn didn’t think he was as regretful as he sounded.  While he talked, he mixed together the batter for dumplings, something she rarely made because they were just never quite as good as her father’s.  Caitwyn retrieved her box of spices and watched her father’s process carefully. Since he was here, it seemed a shame to let this opportunity go to waste.  “Your _mamae_ brought her friends to the Alienage after the official ceremony at the palace.”

“She even nicked two bottles of wine from the royal wine cellar to donate to _our_ celebrations,” Shianni said airily, sitting herself down on the other end of the couch with a smug grin.

“I left coins!  And a note! It’s not stealing if you leave money,” Caitwyn insisted, gesturing imperiously with her spice box.

“My dear, I despair of you sometimes,” Zevran drawled, and then sighed as if his despair knew no bounds.

“Why is everyone ganging up on me right now?” she asked darkly.  Fully aware she was being petulant and equally unable to stop herself, she shoved the spice box at her father and collapsed onto Alistair’s lap in a huff.

“I don’t know, but I’m enjoying not being the target for once.”  Alistair beamed at her, and she glared right back him. His smile turned smug when she didn’t leave her spot on his lap either.   Kieran laughed at them both. For once, neither of them were getting out of this unscathed.

Caitwyn had forgotten what it was like, to be around _family_.  Their friends at Vigil’s Keep, close friends that is, were few.  Only Nathaniel and Oghren had been left to them by the time they had both embarked on their respective quests.  While they had both been good friends, it was not the same as what she had here and now, in this little house by the sea.

“Indeed,” Papa said wryly, continuing to cook as if all the children had not been taking pot shots at each other.  “You should know Kieran, our people might not have much, but what we do have, we share. And while your _mamae_ was the hero of the hour, we needed more hands to help cook.  And Cait rolled up her sleeves and started to help. Their faces were priceless.  Complete shock, each and every one of them.”

“I was devastated, to tell the truth,” Alistair said, holding his hand over his heart as if in memory of a grievous wound.

“You pointed at me and shouted ‘betrayal!’”

“Did not!  I merely expressed my surprise in a calm and reasonable manner.”

“Alistair,” Shianni drawled, her smile as sweet as sugar and false as dice.  “The whole Alienage stared at you.”

“They did not—”

“They did, son, they did.”  Papa’s assertion was final, and he set the pastries aside to rest before checking the stew pot a final time.  With a satisfied hum, he nodded and with a thick towel, lifted the pot off the hearth. “Now, who’s hungry for dinner?”

Not enough room at their small table, they ate scattered about the living area.  Alistair pulled over chairs for Papa and Shianni while Caitwyn and Alistair sat on the couch.  Kieran leaned against Violet on the floor by the fire, and Zevran nudged Oak away to reclaim the warm stones he had occupied earlier.  Dinner took a while to eat, all the adults trying to tell tales on each other, and Caitwyn noticed a distinct trend toward telling tells on _her_.  Kieran ate up the stories with as much enthusiasm as he ate his stew.

After dinner, Shianni and Zevran took over the cleaning up, taking pots and pans right out of Caitwyn’s hands.  She then tried to set up the bedding for everyone, but Alistair and Papa were already making quick work of that, unfurling bedrolls and pilling up blankets to keep everyone warm overnight.  Kieran even offered Shianni his room for the night, dragging out the sleeping pallet he’d slept on when he first stayed here with Morrigan. Without anything to do, Caitwyn’s chest constricted to think of how selfish and blind she’d been.  She’d cut herself off from this, from her family, and it hadn’t been necessary in the slightest.

She wanted to apologize, but she didn’t know how to start.

Thoughts turned inward, she started when she felt a hand on her back, but it was only Alistair.  She leaned against him, his strength and solidity the safest place she had ever known. Dropping a kiss to her hair, he murmured a low voiced question, “You alright there?”

“I think I will be,” she whispered.  Her fingers toyed with the half-done laces of his shirt, the combination of built up fire and so many people in their small home forcing him out of his woolen tunic.

“You know, everyone thought you’d be pretty mad at me for this stunt.  I thought so, too.” His tone was partially amused and partially concerned, as if he were waiting for the hammer to descend from on high.

“I was.  Until I saw Papa, and I—well, I was an idiot, I can admit that.  And I know, I _know_ , you were smart about it.  I know you can run a deaddrop, and I know Zevran wouldn’t take any unnecessary risks.  I just wish,” she trailed off, the idea coalescing slowly in her mind.

“What?” he prompted.

“I just wish you’d given me the chance to talk it out properly.  Like to think I would’ve agreed, but it’s done, and I won’t say I regret it.  Not like you dragged anyone else into this and were going around in all your Warden kit,” she said dryly.  

“Hm, now that _would_ draw attention, yes,” he mused.  Nuzzling her hair, he breathed in deep, and she was glad she’d been able to find soap that smelled of lilacs in Yena’s shop.  He never asked why her hair always smelled of flowers even in the winter, and she enjoyed how much he enjoyed it. His lips close to her ear, voice a promise and a plea, a shield in the dark, he said at last, “I’d do anything to protect this family, Cait.  You have to know that.”

“I do,” she assured him and pressed her lips to his.  All he had done to protect her, what he had endured to protect their son, all she could see that he would do to protect their growing family.  She hoped that he would never be tried so again.

“Ugh, gross.”  Caitwyn’s eyes snapped open at Kieran’s voice.

“My, my, so affectionate still.  It is a wonder it took this long for you to fall pregnant, my friends,” Zevran commented wryly.

“Don’t stay up _too_ late, Cait,” Shianni teased.

“Go on, you two, we’ll see you in the morning,” Papa said at last, and Caitwyn ducked her head.  Alistair’s cheeks were bright red, making his winter-faded freckles stand out.

“Yes, see you in the morning, Papa,” Caitwyn said hurriedly as she and Alistair fled into the relative safety of their bedroom.  And she would see him in the morning for the first time in five years. Maybe he would make pancakes.


	14. From Foundations Grown

“And that’s it.  Not much compared to Denerim, but it’s a good place.”  Alistair hoped he was not being horribly obvious that he wanted Cyrion to approve of the place he and Cait had decided to settle.  Cyrion had never threatened Alistair, nor done anything that made Alistair think that Cyrion disapproved of him like other fathers might have done upon learning their daughter had a lover.  Rather, Caitwyn’s father had always seemed rather accepting of his daughter being with a human, but the older elf’s quiet disposition meant that Alistair didn’t always know how to read how he reacted.

“It seems like a good place.  A good place to raise a family,” Cyrion remarked, taking in a better view of the village than he had been treated to yesterday when the storm had been rolling in.  A new layer of snow covered everything, and Alistair had only taken them on the tour of the village proper, not out to the outlying farmsteads. Alistair didn’t want to drag Cyrion through that much snow, even though they had ensured Caitwyn’s family had been outfitted with the extra winter clothing and cloaks they kept on hand. 

Neither could Alistair ignore the slower step Cyrion had of late, nor did he think it was completely due to the weather.

“It’s a great place!” Kieran enthused, picking up Alistair’s plan easily enough.  Zevran had kept most of his thoughts to himself, though his expressions swung from despair at his friends living in such a rustic place and utter amusement at Alistair’s bending over backwards to show Cyrion the brightest side of the place that he could.  “Sister Tannis is a really good teacher, and Sister Wilamena is really nice, too. And I have lots of friends, and I know the baby will, too. There’s always new babies.”

“Schooling for everyone, hm?”  Cyrion peered thoughtfully at the Chantry, one grey eyebrow arching thoughtfully just like Caitwyn’s.  That clearly meant something to the older elf, that his daughter’s children would have schooling, where his daughter had only been able to learn basic reading, writing and cyphering prior to leaving home.

“Yeah!  Of course, it’s for everyone,” Kieran said, the idea that some people wouldn’t be allowed to study not a part of his experience.  So wise in some ways, and still a boy in others. That innocence made all three men stop for a moment, none of them willing to correct Kieran on the matter.

“This is a good place, son.  You have done well here, I can see that.” Cyrion finally smiled fully, and Alistair breathed a very tiny sigh of relief. 

“Well, how about we get some lunch at the pub, then?  Zevran, there might even be fish stew on,” Alistair said in a sing-song tone, knowing his fondness for the dish.  Though he would likely have to endure a verbal treatise on why it wasn’t as good as  _ Antivan _ fish stew, mainly due to a lack of spice.  Alistair had learned to tolerate  _ some _ spice.  Caitwyn had found a taste for it, Maker help him, but she wasn’t cruel with it.  Not like Zevran had been when his turn to cook had come around at camp, viewing eating like a sport, seeing how much he could endure.

“Hm, at least the fish would be fresh here,” Zevran allowed.  “And this is the place where I could rent a room, yes? It is a touch too, hm, cozy I shall say, in your house, though splendid and lovey as it is.”

“That might be something Shianni and I do as well,” Cyrion mused.  Alistair didn’t think Caitwyn would mind her family staying at The Mermaid’s Rest.  It had been a rather tight fit last night and sheer chaos this morning. 

Then, in the cold, clear air of the late winter morning, came a dreaded noise.  The call that everyone in Devon-by-Sea knew well, and knew to brace for being talked at.

“Cooo-eee!” Lunete Neam called out.  It was too late to run. They’d been spotted and there was nothing for it but to turn and face the plump mayor.  Alistair liked the woman, who was technically his superior as well. She was friendly and sunny, almost to the point of madness, and she had been instrumental in the village accepting their little family.  Without her and Mother Ostryd, Kieran might have been ostracized or worse. However, he knew that sometimes she could look right through someone’s eyes and right into their head. Cait could do that, but she rarely did that to  _ him _ .  Lunete, on the other hand, had.  Then there was the fact that once she got started talking, it was hard to get her stop.  “Kieran! Alistair! Who do we have here?”

“Mayor Neam, hello.  This is Zevran, and old friend of mine and Cait’s.  He was kind enough to help Cyrion, Caitwyn’s father here, and her cousin Shianni—she’s still at the house with Cait—come down to visit,” Alistair explained as quickly as he could, hoping that maybe they could get through this in less than half an hour.

“Oh my, so pleased to meet you both,” Lunete said, shaking Zevran’s and then Cyrion’s hand, giving neither man time to get away.  She was just as bundled up as anyone else, her coat and scarf making her look more spherical than normal. And in spite of the bone-deep cold, she kept talking, “So lovely to have you here.  I’m sure your daughter is so happy to see you, and her cousin as well, how lovely. I hope to meet her, too. Have you been enjoying your stay so far? I hope Devon-by-Sea is quite alright for you.  I know it was a bit of a storm we had there recently, but ah, today is clear and lovely, and not half bad, if I say so myself. You off to the pub, then?”

The question lingered in the winter air, the chirp of the small, fat wintering birds the only sound around them.  Alistair was about to reply when Cyrion coughed and respectfully ducked his head.

“Yes, Mayor Neam.  We thought we’d have a bit of luncheon, and then see about taking some of the rooms there.  Caitwyn and Alistair have a lovely home, but it is rather small for all of us together.” Cyrion recovered remarkably quickly from the verbal onslaught that Lunete launched, but Alistair was well aware that this was not the end of it.  He braced for whatever direction Lunete was going to drag the conversation into, while Kirean was already obliquely edging away, trying to tug Zevran along with him. Zevran, however, stood rooted to the spot, watching the exchange with undisguised amusement.

“No, no no, that won’t do.  You’re family, not peddlers!  Oh, I know you’ve got that extension planned, Alistair, but they can’t wait until spring.  Oh, no, you should all board with me. I have plenty of room, and would he happy for the company,” she said, as bright and irrepressible as a dandelion.  Cyrion almost choked on his own breath at the offer, but he regained enough of himself to try to refuse.

“Oh, we couldn’t possibly impose—" he tried to say.  Alistair could have told him it was pointless, but he didn’t have the chance to.  Lunete was charging ahead, like a horse out of a gate.

“It’s hardly an imposition.  Why, your daughter has been a boon for us.  All the furs and feathers and fresh meat? It’s surely saved a good number of our livestock for leaner times, not to mention the pelts she brings in make for excellent trade.  And our sheriff here has already talked down some young boys who were looking for trouble, and stopped three bar fights. Winter is a hard time for the men, you know, more time to drink and get into trouble.  The least we could do is makes sure you have a good stay here. Not that Paedrick and Hetty wouldn’t look after you like you were one of their own, of course not. But a little homey touch would be nice, wouldn’t it?”  Those blue eyes shone in her wrinkled face with surety of purpose, and Alistair had the distinct honor of seeing Cyrion Tabris, one of the most subdued, even tempered people he had ever known, appear as though he’d just been through a gale.   His green eyes were wide, and his mouth worked soundlessly as he tried to formulate a response.

“Truly, we are seeing a master at work.  I am in awe,” Zevran said under his breath as he leaned in close to Alistair.

“There’s never any getting used to it either,” Alistair whispered back.

“I suppose, maybe.  Well, that is to say that might.  I mean, that does sound rather—” Cyrion stumbled over his words, a nervous smile on his face.  Though Alistair would have bet at least even money that Cyrion wasn’t exactly sure what he was smiling about.  Lunete had that effect on people.

“Wonderful!  You and your niece can stay with me!” Lunete exclaimed, her hands fluttering about like a street performer distracting a mark before a trick.  “And Master Zevran, of course—"

“My dear lady,” Zevran interpreted her.  He bowed over her hand, miming holding a hat behind his back as though he were a dashing suitor.  “While I can see that I would be most welcome in your no doubt lovely home, I beg that you understand my preference is to be at an inn if one is available.  Indeed, would it not be rude to prevent this good Master Paedrick and lovely Mistress Hetty from rare mid-winter custom? One should not be too greedy in visitors, no?”

“You are a delight, young man.”  Lunete laughed, flicking her scarf at Zevran as if it were some lady’s fan.  Then she sighed. “Oh, were I twenty years younger.”

“Were you twenty years younger, my dear, you would be twenty years less experienced.”  A smirk curved Zevran’s lips, and Alistair was abruptly reminded of the elf perhaps not-so-jokingly chasing after  _ Wynne _ .  A sinking horror in his gut, Alistair clapped his hands over Kieran’s ears.  His son did  _ not _ need to hear this.   _ He  _ didn’t need to hear this.

“Aaaand, that’s enough of that.  Zevran, how are you still like this?” he asked accusingly, glaring at his old friend.  Alistair had a lot to thank Zevran for, especially in the last year between helping him get Cyrion and Shianni to surprise Cait, and of course breaking him out of Weisshaupt, but sometimes Zevran’s natural tendency to be an elf-shaped tomcat was almost too ridiculous to be believed.

Zevran merely shrugged, unconcerned about how anyone reacted to his mannerisms.  As usual.

“Da, it’s too late, I heard it,” Kieran murmured.   Shaking off Alistair’s hands, Kieran rolled his eyes though he didn’t seem as horrified as Alistair was by Zevran’s catting about.

“Ah-ha, yes, well.”  Cyrion stumbled over his words.  Then he coughed, as if he was not sure if he should be uncomfortable or not.  “Thank you, Mayor Neam. It is a kind offer, and I am certain my daughter would be happy to have her home back.”

“Lovely,” Lunete said brightly, her blue eyes flicking up and down, but not at Zevran.  No. At Cyrion, and as much as that sent a touch of horror running through Alistair’s mind, he had a feeling that Caitwyn would have a much more interesting reaction.

That, he would  _ have _ to see.

 

* * *

 

“It’s beautiful here, Cait.  I can see why you came here.”  Shianni wrapped her shawl snuggly about her shoulders as they walked along the shore.  Caitwyn was equally well-bundled, her thick clothing making her more awkward than even her pregnancy could account for.  The wind off the ocean had calmed from the previous night and was merely a light, playful breeze tugging at their hair. It reminded Cait of when they had been young, running around Denerim in bare feet, one step ahead of the gangs of shem children, but always eager to be at the docks.  To be near the ocean, to feel that breeze that never made it past the rickety bulk of the Alienage apartments.

“Shianni, I’m—”

“If you try to apologize to me again, I’ll throw you in the water!”

“You’d  _ try _ ,” Caitwyn retorted.  Her eyes flashed dangerously, though her mouth curved in a sharp, toothy grin.

“There you are!  Finally. The cousin I remember, not the one turned inside out because of guilt.  I never blamed you, not for anything. I’ve found a way to make my life my own, and that  _ is _ thanks to you.  You could’ve asked the queen for anything, and you asked for something for us, for me,” Shianni said, taking Caitwyn’s hand in her own and giving it a reassuring squeeze.  As much as Caitwyn had thought she’d moved past that day, past everything that had happened, the memories lingered, all that she had failed to do still dogged her footsteps.  Not as coursing hounds, but as niggling reminders, worms that crawled and burrowed and could not be removed, even though she couldn’t see or hear them most of the time. 

But perhaps it was time to truly lay some ghosts to rest.

“I knew you could handle those shems at court, you were the one that was always full of fire,” Caitwyn said, wrapping an arm around her cousin’s waist.  Shianni, taller than her  _ elder _ cousin since she had been twelve, circled her arm around Caitwyn’s shoulders.  Caitwyn no longer felt  _ completely _ put out about that, but she had been.  Once upon a time.

“Oh, I don’t know,” Shianni drawled, her grin turning impish.  “I remember how you’d get when you were angry. Wouldn’t charge in, wouldn’t yell.  You’d just quietly plan  _ something _ , and then do it.  I know you’d have them all terrified of you, if you were there.”

“Maker, Shianni!  You make me sound like I’d be some kind of… some kind of  _ Orlesian _ , plotting things,” Caitwyn said with obvious distaste.  Then she couldn’t help but wonder: was she that frightening?  Was that how other people saw her? She knew how people saw her as a Warden-Commander.  The stories were absurd for the most part, though she did like that they made her taller.  Shooting lightning from her bow, however, was just idiotic. Poetic, but idiotic.

“Ha!  I don’t know if it’d be plotting.  Maybe more like a,” Shianni trailed off, gesturing inarticulately for a few moments until the words came to her.  “Maybe more like a terrifying shadow figure that haunts their footsteps?”

“I’m feeling better about not coming back, if that’s what you think of me.”  Caitwyn held her head high, and put on an air of one deeply offended. Shianni laughed, that silly half chuckle-half giggle she had that Cait had heard nearly all her young life.

“No,” Shianni said between bouts of laughter.  “I know you better than that. But they wouldn’t.  You always were good at convincing people of anything.  Remember when we got a whole tray of peaches? Convinced the poor grocer we were errand girls?”

“Oh, Andraste help me, I do.  Poor Soris, all dressed up in Tilly’s dress!  Why did we think we all needed to be girls again?” Caitwyn asked, frowning as she tried to recall why she had been so insistent that Soris needed to be in a dress and pretend to be a girl.  The reasons escaped her, lost to time and memory, but the recalled sight of nine-year-old Soris all done up in a borrowed dress would be with her forever. Or so she hoped.

“I have no idea, but it worked!”  Shianni’s giggles bubbled up and over the sound of the waves crashing on the shore, and the two women leaned against each other as they walked, minds cast back to when they had been young and the world had not hurt them yet.  When laughter had been easier and carried less shadows. 

“True enough.  Ah, I missed you, Shianni,” she said.  Oh Maker how she had missed her cousin, how she had missed not having to think about what she was about to say, or how to say it.  How she missed that Shianni didn’t have to be told much of anything, because she already knew. Knew because she had been there, all their young lives. 

“Then at least write more, Cait,” Shianni told her, stopping to take Caitywn’s hands in her own.  Caitwyn ducked her head, a silent agreement to do as she had been asked, as she should have a long time ago.  To be a part of the family, however she could, even if it was from a distance. Then Shianni brightened. “If anything, I’ll need your advice when Soris’s eldest comes to stay with me.  I’m going to name him my heir, and he’s got a lot to learn. But he’s only seven. I was never as good with children as you were.”

“Ah, I had practice.  You were hell to keep track of, you know.  Like the one time—”

“No!” Shianni exclaimed, letting go of Cait’s hands and holding her own hands up as if in defense against whatever Caitwyn had been about to say.

“You don’t even know what I was going to say,” Cait pointed out, rolling her eyes.

“Just no!  You remember more than I do, and that’s not fair.”  Shianni’s voice was plaintive, and Caitwyn grinned, knowing an advantage when she saw one. 

“Not fair?  You sure, because I remember another time when you,” Caitwyn drawled, tapping her lips thoughtfully.  Shianni, promptly picked up her skirts and ran back to the house. Caitwyn, similarly dressed in layers of skirt and breeches, did the same, but her turn of speed was not what it once was. “Oi!  You get back here!  Damn it, running away from a pregnant woman, Shianni!  Very well done!”

Chasing Shianni back up the hill, albeit slowly, Caitwyn could not stop smiling.  All that she had carried, she had slowly laid down over the years, and finally, at the last, she had laid down this final burden, this final self-imposed mark of failure.  It had only taken, as it always had, reaching out to ask, to ask and be forgiven. Heavy and pregnant, Caitwyn nevertheless had never felt lighter.

She had her family back.

 

* * *

 

Alistair tromped through the snow, returning to his rounds after Zevran and Caitwyn’s family had been settled in their new temporary accommodations.  It was nice to have the house back to themselves again, though Cyiron and Shianni made the trek every evening for supper. Zevran, as per usual, found ways to pass the time on his own terms.  As long as the elf didn’t cause any problems for anyone, Alistair was determined to keep his nose out of it.

Though he thought he caught sight of an older man, a widower according to Lunete, smiling in a certain satisfied way after talking to Zevran.

No, no don’t think about it.  It was decidedly  _ not _ his business.

What was his business was checking up on the farms that were further out from the village.  The Simmel and Renold properties were some of the closest in and the largest, and Alistair knew he stopped in at both places a bit more than he should.  They were welcoming households, at least. Brigid Simmel always had something to feed him when he dropped in, and Kennard was good company on a blustery day.  He also got to check up on Lily and Poppy, the dogs that had bonded to Kieran’s friends, the twins Eridin and Filla. Caitwyn always liked updates on how the rest of the litter was doing, and the war-dogs turned farm-dogs were the ones she saw the least.

However, he made himself go past the lanes that led up to the closer farm houses and kept on following the path further and further out of the village.  Here, the trees had been cut back further, providing more farm land for families that had arrived in the village later. One day the farm land might encompass the land to the north, closing in around their little cottage, but he hoped not.  He liked having all that land to themselves, even if they technically didn’t own it. No one else used it, so it was theirs, and Caitwyn was already marking out where she would plant a little spring garden.

Contemplating the very pleasant thought of the sight of Cait bent over while tending to flowers—though he accepted she would probably plant vegetables instead—Alistair yelped when he heard an accented, “You really should pay more attention to your surroundings, my friend.”

“Maker’s balls, Zevran!” he shouted, jumping back, his heart spiking a wild beat.  Zevran somehow managed to lounge while standing up, and a delighted light sparked in the elf’s eyes.  “You have fun doing that.”

“Of course I do, otherwise why would I do it?”  Zevran’s dagger sharp grin cut across his face, and Alistair held his chin thoughtfully, as if contemplating the question. 

“Fair point,” he said after a beat.  Zevran threw back his head and laughed, and Alistair chuckled, in spite of being the target of the joke.  Their breath steamed in the cold air, and their laughter eventually wound down. Once again relatively collected, Alistair wondered what Zevran was doing out here, of all places, so far away from a warm fire and the spiced cider that Paedrick brewed.

“You are on your rounds, yes?” Zevran asked.  Alistair nodded, knowing Zevran had a method to his actions, but at present uncertain about what his old friend was up to.

“I need to keep going.  You’d be welcome to come along, if that’s what you’re out here for.”  Alistair doubted that, but he put the thought out there regardless. The cold began to creep in past Alistair’s cloak, and he thought they’d been stationary long enough.  Zevran shook his head, but followed when Alistair started walking again.

“Not precisely, no.  Understand, I have no wish to tell you how to go about your work, but you and Caitwyn are rather dear to me.  To see either of you come to harm is not something I would care for.” Zevran’s voice dipped low, and the elf kept his eyes on the area around them.  In spite of Zevran’s cavalier approach to nearly everything, Alistair knew the kind of person he was underneath it all. A true friend if Alistair had ever had one.

“What did you find?” Alistair asked.  Zevran sighed, the corners of his mouth turning down in a frown. 

“There are mutterings, my friend, about you and Caitwyn.  I have heard much that you would expect when an elf and a human are openly together, and though some of it spills over onto the smith, most of it is directed at our dear Cait.  And her child,” Zevran said at the last, his voice hard and flat as he spoke. Alistair’s jaw clenched, and his breathing went shallow. It wasn’t a surprise, not hardly, not after what Alrect had said to him at the start of winter, the threats he had drunkenly uttered against Cait and Kieran.  Lunete had kept her ear to the ground for any more threats, but so far none had appeared. Zevran, apparently, had a different vantage from which to take in the ugly details of village life.

“You knew, then, I take it.”  Zevran’s voice was quiet and held a bitterness deeper than the cold air of the day.  Alistair could only nod as red hot anger flickered into life in his mind, and the elf sighed.  “Then Caitwyn knows, I do not doubt.”

“You’ve told her this already, haven’t you?” Alistair asked.  He was surprised when Zevran shook his head.

“No, I have not.  I shall leave that unpleasant task to you,” Zevran replied.  Although his smirk was back in force, it did not reach his eyes.  Those hard dark eyes, eyes that had seen more than their share of death and pain, and Alistair clapped Zevran on the shoulder.

“Thank you.”  He would tell Cait.  She had a right to know, but he thought he might know why Zevran came to him while he was on his rounds.  Together, they might be able to find out a little more about who was making threats Alistair would not, could not ignore.

“Of course, my friend.  You have but to ask, and these men, well.  They will not trouble you.” The offer was earnest, and made with an eagerness that Alistair found he heartily approved of.  He might not ever take up the offer, but that it was made was appreciated all the same. Once, he had been appalled at Zevran’s profession and his behavior, but his old friend had shown time and time again that he would not abandon his friends in their times of need.  When the call went out, Zevran had been there, and Alistair was grateful for it.

 

* * *

 

“And this, my young friend, should go here,” Zevran said, demonstrating for Kieran how to rig the trap.  Caitwyn glanced up from her own work, keeping her hands still while she wasn’t looking directly at the trap she was working on.  Kieran bit his lip and carefully placed the trigger into the mechanism while Zevran watched with a careful eye. The trigger clicked into place, and Kieran’s face bloomed into a proud grin.

“ _ Mamae _ !  I did it!”  Carefully, Kieran picked up his trap and held it under her nose for her approval.  Gingerly, Caitwyn took the trap from him and made a show of examining it. It wasn’t bad, not entirely.  Kieran was good with his hands from all the drawing he did, but she would rather he focus on his art than making traps.  He had an education and a possible vocation in front of him unlike her, and she wanted him to have it.

“Very well constructed,” she said, smiling at her son.  He preened at the praise, and then she handed it back to him.  “Why don’t you go set that in the storeroom? We don’t want any mice getting at the grain.”

“Yeah!  Good idea!”  With little more encouragement than that, Kieran sped to the door, balancing the trap in one hand while he struggled into his boots and coat.  Violet followed on his heels as always, and Oak lazed by the hearth. Alistair would be gone for several hours yet, still on his rounds, and Papa and Shianni were packing for tomorrow, when they would be leaving.  Now that they had been here the past week, Cait could hardly stand to watch them go, though she knew Shianni had to get back to Denerim. The bann of the Alienage couldn’t afford to be gone for long.

The house was quiet, just her and Zevran making traps like they had years ago.  He had typically been better at applying poison to blades than anything else, but she had taught him and in turn he had shown her how to handle her mother’s dagger with deadly grace.  They had learned so much from each other over the years, and to think their friendship had begun with an assassination attempt.

“He is not bad, you know.  He could have a future as a trapper,” Zevran mused.  Caitwyn raised one dark eyebrow at him, and he laughed off the idea.  “I know, I know, Morrigan would string us all up, yes. Ah, it is good to see you happy, my dear, and I am sorry to have marred that with my curious snooping around this village.”

“Zevran, we’re doubly warned now, so don’t you apologize for it,” she told him firmly.  He waved away her assurances, however, and his lips pressed into a thin line with concern. 

“Still, I know you had hopes for a quiet life, and that this darkness has followed you,  _ brasca _ ,” he cursed.    “You should be knitting little clothes for your baby, not making traps.”  His brows furrowed in frustration at his inability to help beyond setting traps with her.  Alistair told her of Zevran’s offer, but neither of them were willing to commit murder over a threat muttered into an ale cup.  Though she knew how threats could turn to deeds quick enough, this was a small village, and murder would not go unremarked.

Not to mention that if a murder occurred while strangers associated with her were in the village, she didn’t think they would be able to stay, no matter what evidence was provided.

“This was here before we ever showed up, and you and I both know it could be a lot worse.  Thanks to you, we’re warned, and now we’re going to be prepared.” She leaned across to grip his hand, squeezing for all she was worth, and he squeezed back.  Then she smirked. “Besides, I’d rather make traps than knit. Turns out, I’m rather bad at knitting.”

The corner of Zevran’s lip quirked up, and then he threw back his head and laughed.

“Ah, my dear, you are as delightful as ever.  Well, should you need me I will return, and until then do you want to see if we can trap Alistair’s chair?” Zevran asked.  Caitwyn wanted to say no. They really, really shouldn’t, but she couldn’t help the wild, gleeful grin that sprang to life on her face.

“Zevran, you’re a genius.”

 

* * *

 

They were up early, Hetty having opened The Mermaid’s Rest early so the whole family could have one final breakfast together.  Though Papa and Shianni had lingered over their meal, now it was come time to go. The tavern was warm and cozy, and Cait hugged Shianni tightly.  She thought it cruel to make her family leave so soon and in the cold. Now that the storms of Guardian were dying down, the crisp cold of Drakon was setting in, winter hanging on grimly to the end.

“I’m holding you to your promise, Cait,” Shianni said, a threat in her words but not her voice.  Her cousin hugged her back just as fiercely. 

“I’ll write,” Caitwyn assured her cousin, and then reluctantly let her go.  Papa held back, and if it was hard for Cait to say goodbye to her cousin, she had not yet been able to work up to the idea that she was saying goodbye to her father.  Again. Instead, she focused on what she could handle right now and nodded to Zevran. “Zevran said he’d set up a deaddrop for us before he leaves Denerim.”

“Ah, it will be most exciting.  Tell me, do you believe that gentlemen, Slim something, large of face but nimble if I recall, though that was ten years ago.  Do you think he would still operates in the city? He might be of some assistance as well,” Zevran mused, pursing his lips. 

“Could be a good idea,” Alistair said, holding out his hand.  Zevran clasped it and grinned up at Alistair. 

“Oh, in all this excitement, such as it is, I forgot to ask.  You do still have that book, yes?” Zevran asked, and Alistair rolled his eyes while Caitwyn hung her head in a familiar kind of despair.

“What book, Uncle Zevran?” Kieran asked, looking up at the former Crow with guileless curiosity.  Kieran would take this personally, the idea that there was a book in the house that he  _ hadn’t _ read, but there was no way Caitwyn was going to let a ten-year-old boy read  _ that _ book.  Never mind how helpful that book had been to two inexperienced young people in love with more enthusiasm than know-how. 

“There is no book,” Alistair insisted, though his cheeks and ears had already turned red.  Kieran eyed his father suspiciously, but before anyone could ask anything else, Caitwyn hugged Zevran.

“You really had to, didn’t you?” she whispered to him.  Her old friend, one of her dearest friends who had been there to the end, and even past that.  Who had teased and cajoled and cared all through the years, who had fought with her back to back through the worst the world had thrown at her.

His answering grin was as quick and sharp as ever. 

“Of course I did, my dear Caitwyn,” he replied with great aplomb, and then spoke loud enough for everyone to hear.  “He blushes so prettily, still. How could I not?”

“I suppose I should just be flattered that you still think I’m pretty,” Alistair said with a sigh.  “You’ll come to visit though, won’t you?”

“I will my friends, though, perhaps in the summer.  But I would very much like to meet your little one,” Zevran said, clasping forearms with Alistair.  Then the men pulled each other into a brief, back slapping hug. “I find I do not mind being ‘Uncle Zevran,’ and surely everyone needs a fun uncle.”

The wink he gave Kieran was obvious, but it made the boy laugh all the same, and Caitwyn didn’t have it in her to disagree.

Then it was down to the last.  Shianni was saying goodbye to Alistair and Kieran, and Caitwyn turned to Papa.  Older, but not as stooped as when he had first arrived. Either the fresh air agreed with him, or seeing her settled and happy, what he had wanted for her nearly twelve years ago now, had removed the cares that had weighed him down.  He held her hands gently, and she was hit with the recollection of the first time he had shown her how to bake bread, when he had helped her thread a needle to patch a shirt, or the morning of her wedding, when he had thought he would always have his daughter close by.

“You glow, little firebug, in a way you haven’t in a long time.  Even before your mother died,” Papa told her, and she could only nod in agreement and grip his hands tighter.  “And I was thinking, seeing you in this village, so happy, and with a baby on the way. What would you say if I stayed?  Would that be alright?”

“Uncle!” Shianni exclaimed, and that answered Caitwyn’s first question, if he had discussed this with Shianni previously.  Clearly, he had not.

“I don’t think it’s up to me, Papa,” Caitwyn said, recovering quickly, but tears welled in her eyes.  Papa would be  _ here _ .  He could watch his grandchildren grow up, could be here for them, could be here for  _ her _ .  “But I would be so happy if you did stay.  We all would, wouldn’t we?”

Alistair and Kieran nodded, Kieran going so far as to hug the man he had called Grandpa without a moment’s hesitation.  Their son had his father’s heart, that was certain, and Caitwyn would always be glad of that. Cyrion grinned, accepting the affection easily.

“Excellent.  I’ll just have to let Lunete know she’ll just have to put up with me a little longer, until I get my own place of course,” Papa said, and Caitwyn noticed a shy gleam in her father’s eyes.  Exchanging a wide-eyed look with Shianni, Cait was prepared for many things, but perhaps not  _ that. _

 

* * *

 

The end of Cloudreach approached, and the weather began to warm, though the wind off the ocean still had the bite of cold teeth in it.  Work had started on the house. Again. Even if Morrigan hadn’t insisted that a room be ready for her when she arrived in late summer, Caitwyn knew it was for the best.  Their little home needed to be a touch larger, if the occasional visitor was to be expected, and because she couldn’t expect Kieran to share a room with a toddler. It struck her how large the age gap would be between Kieran and the baby, and she hoped they would find a way to be good to each other regardless of the years between them.

He had turned eleven earlier in the month, and Caitwyn’s birthday was not long after that.  To keep things a little more manageable, they had decided to celebrate their birthdays on the same day, at a point between their two birthdays.  She didn’t mind sharing the day with her son in the slightest, and she was happy to let the day be about him anyway.

That he cared for chocolate cake, and nearly made himself sick after eating the cake Papa had made for them to share was simply a hallmark of the boy’s good taste.  If not his self-control. Though, to be fair, Papa did make a very good chocolate cake. It had been a good day, their friends up at the house, Kieran running without a care with all his friends, the puppies of Maethor’s last litter all full grown now and reunited, slamming into each other like bulls in their enthusiasm.

Since it was now impossible to keep the fact of her pregnancy quiet, she’d had to make the announcement, which meant her whole birthday had been filled with advice from Hetty and Yena and Brigid, not to mention Lunete Neam who had attended as Papa’s… guest.  Caitwyn tried not to think about  _ that.  _

Shaking her head, she continued along her game trail with Oak at her side, her bow in her hand.  She knew better than to go about without some measure of protection, especially after what Zevran had overheard during his time here.  As for hunting, however, she mostly relied on her traps . Cunning devices if she said so herself. And her skill with traps was far better than any of her attempts at knitting, something she tried to do based on the notion that mothers should knit for their babies.  Thankfully her friends had come to her rescue and had gifted her all the baby clothing they no longer had a use for. Whole bushels of it, it seemed, but she still felt a strange compulsion to keep  _ trying _ with the knitting.

The image of a soft, brightly colored blanket stuck in her head and she just  _ knew _ she had to make it.

Exhaling sharply, she tried to pay better attention to her surroundings.  The snow had mostly melted away, a few pockets lingering underneath the shelter of the pine trees, but the ground was thick and muddy, new spring grass bright green and the bluebells in bloom.  It was maddening, her thoughts running away from her more and more, or that it took any effort at all to move silently, or how her growing belly made it nearly impossible to climb right. She would have to get Kieran to fetch her something, if she needed something from her tree-cache.

Then something in her belly, no not her belly, lower,  _ pinched _ .  Frowning, Caitwyn put her back to a nearby maple tree, Oak walking a slow perimeter around her.  Between all the advice and information from her friends, from Lunete, and from Mother Ostryd, both of whom had seen plenty of women through childbirth, she knew moments of discomfort were perfectly normal.  She’d had several moments like this over the past few weeks, she thought there might be something different about this time though what it was she couldn’t tell. Not yet.

Closing her eyes, she let her shoulders relax and her head fall back, though the bark caught in some of her hair.  It would pass, she assured herself. Just a bit of discomfort like she had every day. Nothing wrong. Then she felt another twinge, and now that she was paying attention she   _ knew _ this felt different.  It wasn’t just a pinch or a twinge.  It felt like like butterflies, like a tadpole in a pond, something barely felt but undeniably  _ there _ .  With unsteady hands, she undid the buttons on her jerkin and then pulled up her shirt, laying her palm across her rounded stomach.  Nothing, for long heartbeats nothing. Breathing out slowly, Caitwyn sank to the ground, the damp remnants last autumn’s rustling underneath her.  

Had all those pinches and twinges been her child moving?  Her  _ child _ .  Moving!  Was it moving now?  She had no idea, but she had to take the time to be sure.

“ _ Da’len _ ,” she whispered at her middle.  “Are you there?” 

She had never called the baby that before  _ da’len _ , not even in her own mind.   _ Da’len _ , a word she had learned out west, when Merril had taught her their people’s language.  It was not the first time she had been far away from nearly everyone and everything she had ever known, but the language had fit into the cracks and gaps in her mind, some of the words more natural to her tongue than the language of her childhood.  Words of love and family,  _ vhenan, da’len _ .  She called Kieran  _ da’len _ .  Her child.  Her son.

Caitwyn sat underneath the blooming branches of a maple tree, hands pressed to her belly, waiting for another sense of movement, no matter how faint.  She barely dared to breathe, fearing she would miss it. Once could be nothing. Twice, perhaps something, but if there was a third time, she would know.  Her child lived inside of her. It was not a dream, it was not madness. It was  _ real _ .

Birds chirped, their mating calls high overhead, and Oak ceased his exploratory sniffing about to sit next to her, ears perked and alert for danger.  She moved her hands slowly, trying to find another angle to feel for movement. Perhaps the baby, her child, had moved. Perhaps after that initial burst, it was tired.  She had no idea. For all the advice she had been on the receiving end of, no one had told her what it would feel like.

Then, again, a flutter, so faint against her palm, but she felt it.  Not just inside of her, where it could only be a trick of her mind, but on her hand.  She let out a shuddering breath and curled up as much as she could, wrapping herself in this moment like it was a quilt.

“ _ Ar lath ma _ ,” she said, voice as soft as the breeze that wove through the trees and set their branches to swaying.   _ I love you _ .  “ _ Ar lath ma, ma’da’len _ .”   _ I love you, my little child _ .  Tears ran down her cheeks even as a helpless laugh trickled out of her mouth like a spring stream over rocks.  Words, even the words of her people, words that felt more right than any others, were not enough for what her heart held.

In her heart was her child, and that child was a world in and of itself.

 

* * *

 

It was late.  Later than he would have liked, and though Alistair wasn’t dragging his feet on the path home, it was only by an effort of will.  Maker, but he was tired. Not the same kind of tired he had known during the Blight, no. That was physical exhaustion, especially by the end, but he’d been twenty, then.  He never thought he’d miss  _ being _ twenty.  All sorts of awkward things about a man at that age.  At least during the Blight, however, he hadn’t been the one  _ talking _ to people.  That had been Cait, using all her charm, considerable when she wanted it to be, to cajole, convince, or otherwise coerce people into throwing their lot in with them, with her. 

Later, as the Warden-Commander, Caitwyn had worn another mask, had another part to play.  She could play it, and play it well, but here, in this village, she had practically gone to ground.  More likely to be found in the woods than in the village, she enjoyed not having to talk to anyone unless she wanted to.  He was happy for her, to have a freedom she never had possessed before.

What he hadn’t expected was how much this sheriff job had him talking to people.  Armsmen and guards, they just patrolled places, didn’t they? He’d never paid much attention.  His role as a Warden, even as a captain in the order, had mostly been about chasing down darkspawn and other threats, not trying to mediate petty grievances.  Bit difficult to be mad about what your neighbor was doing if the whole village was on fire. 

Not that he didn’t like the work, not really.  It had just been a long day. Spring was firmly here, and slights and complaints that had built up all winter had come bursting forth like a snow-melt river.  Fishing spots, fields and land rights, misplaced or stolen small treasures, and children running free like little terrors. He was thankful Kieran and his friends were relatively well-behaved children.  They ran around and got dirty, but all of them were clever and had a clear-eyed sense of what would get them in real trouble.

He could remember spring in Redcliffe.  It had been like this he supposed, but then he’d been the one getting covered in mud and in trouble, so maybe there wasn’t much he really could complain about.  At least people were starting to accept his word on matters, not always appealing to Lunete when he told them something they’d rather not hear. Made him feel like a bit less of an idiot, that, which was nice.

Light streamed from the windows of the house on its little hill, and he picked up his pace, shoulders relaxing and the start of a smile tugging at his mouth.  It wasn’t much, though it would be more soon, once the extra room at the back was done. But it was theirs. They’d made it more their home every day. Cait had planted a little herb garden out front, though she’d added a few flowers as a practical necessity for the bees.  Or so she’d claimed.   And inside that house was was his family. All a man needed in this life. At his approach, the dogs barked, Oak but once, Violet several times, out of some need to make sure she was well and truly heard. Something only a canine mind would be able to fathom no doubt.

“Da!  You gotta come here!” Kieran called out as soon as he stepped through the door. 

“Alright, alright,” he said.  Without even time to divest himself of his sword and boots, Kieran took him by the hand and dragged him to the couch where Caitwyn sat.  Since his overriding thought was  _ Cait’s going to be angry I tracked in mud, _ it took him a few moments to notice  _ how  _ she was sitting.  Her dark skin practically glowed in the light of the fire, her eyes gleamed like emeralds, and she stroked one hand over her exposed belly, its telltale roundness bypassing most of his thought processes. 

His child,  _ their _ child slept there, underneath her heart.  Every time he noticed her getting bigger it sparked a mix of heart-stopping awe, a touch of proprietary smugness, and a thread of desire for her.  Though there had been times, especially in the first few months, when she hadn’t wanted to be touched at all. Since she’d stopped being sick in the mornings, however, she was more likely to throw herself at him.  Not that he was complaining about that, not in the least. It had just meant they’d had to dig out that damned book Zevran had gotten them as something of an anniversary gift years ago. 

A very informative and helpful book, he could admit.  In spite of the source.

“Everything’s alright, isn’t it?” he asked, sliding onto the couch next to her, wrapping one arm around her shoulders.  It had to be alright. Kieran wouldn’t be this excited and she wouldn’t be this calm, actually calm, if something was wrong.  She took his hand and placed it on her belly and held it there.

“I felt her move today,” she told him, and it was like he’d been struck by lightning.  He couldn’t breathe, his ears rang, and the world seemed to stop. It was like when she’d first told him she was pregnant, but  _ more _ .   _ Her _ , Cait said  _ her _ .  Not  _ the baby _ .  And she’d felt their child move. 

“I felt it too, I think!” Kieran said with an ear-to-ear grin on his face.  “It was like a butterfly on my palm!” He knelt on the floor with his arms braced on the couch and Caitwyn between them. 

“Just give it a moment.  She doesn’t move much right now, but she might.  Let’s just wait a moment,” Cait suggested, and Alistair could only nod.  Nothing could move him from this spot, not anything. The only sounds were the crack of the fire and their breathing.  Gently, he stroked Cait’s belly, moving his hand slowly so he wouldn’t miss it by accident. How long they sat waiting, he didn’t know, but then he felt something.  Like a flutter against his hand. Barely, barely there, but—

“Oh, Maker, Maker, Cait is that it?  Is that her?” he asked, voice thick with joyful tears.   _ Her _ .  And why not?  Why not hope for a daughter?  A daughter as clever and pretty as her mother. 

“That’s her,” Cait said, nodding.  Her smile was beatific, glorious, a joy to see in and of itself.  Sinking to his knees, he pressed his lips to his love’s belly.

“Hey there, little one, I’m your Da,” he said softly, because there was no way he could speak louder than this.  It was as if his breath had been stolen from him, and could only find enough left to whisper. “I love you, little one, love you so much.  And I can’t wait to meet you.”

“Oh!” Cait a jolted as if surprised, and then she laughed.  It was that delighted laugh, the one he had gone to idiotic lengths to get out of her during the Blight, the one that told him she hadn’t expected to laugh, to find anything to laugh about.  Maker, but he had lived for her laugh. 

He still did.

“I think she’s looking forward to meeting you.  That was the strongest yet,” she said, and then Kieran was there, his small, pale hand searching for any sign of his younger sibling, maybe a sister.  Maybe he’d help teach her to walk and read, and he’d draw pictures for her, fantastical ones to help her dream of wonderful things.

“Only she?” Kieran asked, hazel eyes big and hopeful.  “You sure it’s not twins?”

“Pretty sure at this point, Kieran,” Caitwyn told their son, and he shrugged philosophically. 

“Well, I love her no matter what,” he declared, determination and happiness all over his face.  He puffed his chest out, and Alistair wrapped an arm around his son’s shoulders and kissed his temple. 

“You’re going to be an amazing brother, Kieran, and I love you so much,” Alistair told his son, and Kieran accepted the affection without trying to squirm away.  He was eleven now, but that wasn’t going to stop him from telling his son, from either of his children, how much they were loved. How much  _ he  _ loved them. 

Then he grinned and dragged Cait into his embrace, holding his family in his arms.  The love of his life, the woman who was his wife in every way save the paperwork, their son, the son he had not known for ten years, but was grateful every day for, and then the child that grew underneath Cait’s heart, perhaps a daughter, or another son, a child that they had never dreamed of, but cherished already.

“I love you,” he whispered into Cait’s ear, and she curled into him, lips just brushing his cheek.

“I love you,” she whispered, the lilt of Denerim’s Alienage coming to the fore, and he held them all the tighter.  His family.


	15. Simple Days Never Came

“So we decided to get married,” Cyrion told her.  Only the good manners Caitwyn had been raised with kept her from spitting out her tea.  She glanced from her father’s cautiously hopeful face to Lunete’s bubbly grin. When Papa had asked her stop by for morning tea, this had not been on her list of possible conversation topics.  Normally, they talked about the baby, now just over four months away from being born, while Lunete tried to keep teaching her how to knit. 

Caitwyn would have preferred to continue failing at knitting than dealing with this right now.

“How did this even happen?  No, no I don’t want to know.”  Caitwyn waved her hands, as if warding off any answer to that particular question.  She was not upset. There was no  _ reason _ to be upset.  It would not be  _ fair _ to be upset, not after everything she had done without so much as talking to her father.  But she was upset, childishly, selfishly upset.

“Oh, we’ve never done anything indecent!  Goodness no!” Lunete exclaimed, fluttering her hands.  Caitwyn balanced when she saw a tinge of regret in Lunete’s eyes.  Clearly, Lunete would not have been opposed to a measure of indecency, and Papa actually blushed.  Papa! Blushing! Caitwyn suddenly wished she was anywhere except here, but she had just gotten her father back in her life, and she wasn’t going to run from him.  Not again. But she had to wonder if he really wanted this.

Papa had to be somewhat lonely in this new place, and knowing Lunete was a good way to have the whole village know you.  While Alistair had warned her that Lunete seemed to be interested in Papa, Cait hadn’t heard anything of that sort of affection between them.  Not a word. Worse, there was nothing in their behavior that she had observed that would have braced her for this. Maybe it was the pregnancy.  That had thrown her off, surely.

“I know this is a bit of a shock to you, firebug,” Papa said, his voice that same, thoughtful cadence.  The same voice that had read her stories when she was little, had taught her how to sew and cook, had been there when she had been scared and lost, the voice she knew after Mama had died. 

“Just a bit.  Papa,” she said, voice catching, trying to not let her own childish reactions dictate what she said.  She took a breath and set down her tea on the little table placed in the middle of the ring of couch and chairs.  It was hard not to think about Mama, how Mama had been everything she had wanted to be when she was little. How much Papa had loved Mama, how he looked at her like the sun rose and set in her eyes.  How she knew Alistair loved her because he looked at her the way her father had looked at her mother.

“You never talked about remarrying before.”  Caitwyn clutched her own hands together, not wanting to feel like Mama was dead all over again.  It wasn’t fair, she kept telling herself. It wasn’t fair to Papa. Mama had been gone for over fifteen years.

“Oh Cait.  This doesn’t mean I don’t miss your mother.  I still do, and nothing is going to make me love her or you any less.”  Papa held her hands gently, like he had when she was little and he was trying to make her understand something.  He caught her eye and saw his patience and love were etched into every line and wrinkle of his face. She tried to let go of her childish anger, and squeezed Papa’s hands.

“I know, Papa.  I know. It’s a shock, like you said,” she told him, sweeping away thoughts that didn’t belong.  The dead were gone, beyond jealousy or pain. Her father deserved to be happy, if this is what he really wanted.  That meant there was another question she had to ask. “Do you… do you love each other?”

“Oh yes,” Lunete said, the bubbly exterior falling away to reveal a woman who very much adored Cyrion Tabris.  Her bright blue eyes were warm, as warm as a summer sky, and Caitwyn felt ashamed at her own thoughts. “Your father is a wonderful man, but I don’t need to tell you that, do I?  He’s so kind and generous, not to mention handsome.”

The last was said with such satisfaction that Caitwyn was reminded of Wynne and some of the sly comments she used to make, and Cait did her best to keep her expression as neutral as possible.  That it also made Papa blush  _ even more _ was the only amusing counterpoint to Cait’s internal desire to flee this house and anything she might hear next.

“And Lunete, well.”  Papa faltered and ducked his head partially from his innate modesty, and partially in an attempt to hide from Cait exactly how excited he was about his bride-to-be.  Unfortunately, she noticed. “I wasn’t looking for anything, but because of her I feel like I’m a young man again!”

She really could have done without knowing that.  Any of this, but especially that. And yet, seeing how happy Papa was, it wasn’t in her to fake how she felt.  If he was happy, then she was happy. He deserved that much, for all he had been through. After everything he had lost and sacrificed.

“That’s good, then.  I suppose. So, when is this wedding?” she asked.  Perhaps in a few months’ time, or after the baby had been born.  That might work. It would be around the Harvest Festival again, and she’d have more time to get used to the idea.

“Tomorrow,” Papa answered, sitting up straight and squaring his shoulders.  With her apparent acceptance, Papa’s confidence returned, and he was clearly not about to be moved on anything from this point on.  Maker help her, Alistair was going to have a field day with this. 

“So soon?” Caitwyn sputtered.   Tomorrow. Andraste’s tears, they’d told her this as a  _ trap _ .  A damned trap.  They were getting married regardless of whether she approved or not. Likely Lunete’s son Lorent would be told today as well.  Lunete had probably invited her son over for luncheon on the pretext of missing him, and then springing the news on him just as they had done with her.  He would be entirely unable to object as she had been, since the arrangements had apparently already been made.

“Better not to wait at our age, dear.  Besides, we wouldn’t want to get married on Summerday.  That’s for young couples. Mother Ostryd will see it done, very quietly.  Just family,” Lunete said, back to her effervescent, irrepressible self.

“You will be there Cait, won’t you?” Papa asked, and that stopped her heart.  He would go through with it, with or without her, but it was clear to her how much he wanted her there.  Wanted her to approve. Just like she had wanted him to approve of Alistair. Was this really any different?  The hopes and dreams he had once had for her had been dust even when she had returned from Ostagar. Though his daughter lived, the picture of his daughter settling down and having a family had been torn asunder.  Instead, he had rejoiced in the happiness she had been able to steal for herself. Now the shoe was on the other foot, and she had only thought of what it meant to  _ her _ having her father here. 

To him it meant a second chance, a way to leave behind everything that had reminded him of Mama, of the fact there was no opportunity for him to remarry and find another, not at his age, not in the Alienage.  Not when the focus was on young couples and having babies. But here, in this little village, where a person was measured by what they could do, he had the chance to find happiness again.

It was not her place to stand between someone she loved and their happiness. 

Rising from her chair, she stepped around the little table set between the furniture they sat on and hugged her father fiercely.  Papa hugged her back just as tightly. Lunete sniffed, and Caitwyn glanced to see the plump human woman smiling at her, not proudly but  _ gratefully _ .  Grateful that Caitwyn wouldn’t try to drive a wedge between the couple.  And that was when Cait didn’t simply approve of her father remarrying, but decided that of all the women he could have chosen in this little village, there was none better than Lunete Neam.  

After a final squeeze, she pulled back and looked her father square in the eye, and said, “Of course, Papa.  I wouldn’t miss it for anything.”

 

* * *

 

Caitwyn smoothed down Papa’s coat, the one Yena had spent all last night adjusting for him, and he worked his shoulders as if he thought it didn’t fit quite right.  He had stayed at the house last night, Kieran thoughtfully giving up his room so his grandfather could attempt to get a good night’s sleep before his wedding. Judging by his fidgeting and multiple attempts to smooth down hair that was perfectly fine, he had not done much in the way of sleeping.

“Would you believe it?  I’m nervous? I’ve been married before, and I’m nervous!” Papa exclaimed, fussing at the collar of his shirt.  Caitwyn held his hands to stop him from stretching it. Lunete was in Mother Ostryd’s office, getting ready, and Caitwyn idly wondered if the twice-widowed mayor would wear white.  Probably not. Papa, as the groom, had been allowed to prepare where the children normally had their lessons. Surrounded by books and the debris of learning, Caitwyn did her best to keep her father calm.

“You’ll be just fine Papa,” she assured him, keeping her expression perfectly composed with a great deal of effort.  Watching her father work himself into such a state was equal parts amusing, endearing, and frustrating. Knowing that assurances would fall on deaf ears, she switched tactics.  Where reassurance would not work, distraction might. “Though I thought you would have had Alistair stand with you for the ceremony.”

“Lunete and I agreed we wanted our children to stand with us. She has Lorent, and I have you,” he told her, his nerves melting away as he did his best to assure  _ her _ that she was in the right place. 

“And you know I’m happy to, Papa,” she said, and pressed a kiss to her father’s cheek.  Distracted now, he tucked a lock of her hair behind her ear, worn loose for the occasion today, barely restrained from going everywhere by some ribbons.  He pursed his lips thoughtfully, and Caitwyn hoped he wasn’t thinking of another last minute thing that just  _ had _ to be done before the ceremony.

“Though that makes me wonder, who did you have stand with you at your wedding?” he asked, and Caitwyn frowned.  Her wedding? The only wedding she had ever had was over ten years distant and hadn’t been much of a wedding. And he’d been there.

“What do you mean ‘you wonder’?” she asked, shaking her head.  “Papa you were  _ there _ .”

“No, I mean when you and Alistair got married, firebug.  I admit, I would have liked to have been there, but I understand.  You were a busy Warden, then,” he said, smiling to show that he carried no hard feelings for the oversight. 

Caitwyn went as still as a deer in the forest.  He thought they were married. And why shouldn’t he?  Alistair used her last name, the whole village believed they were married, and they wore rings.  They even referred to each other as husband and wife in public. There had just been no ceremony, no Chantry record.  That one little thing that drew a line between a legitimate relationship and one that was not.

Could she tell him that?  On his own wedding day? She didn’t want to lie to him, but neither was she sure how to break the news to him that his little girl was living in sin with her human lover and was due to give birth to what would, technically, be a bastard. 

“Papa, about that…” she said slowly, not wanting to distract him  _ too _ much.  There was a fine line between distracting a nervous groom and throwing her father into a fit of apoplexy.   Quickly, she explained the situation, and then frantically signaled for the wedding to start before Papa could work himself up too much.  Between one bewildered exclamation and the next, Mother Ostryd appeared and took her place under the statue of Andraste.

“Come on now, Papa, Mother Ostryd’s ready, so we should get you in place,” she urged.  Without much resistance, her father let her lead him to stand before Mother Ostryd and wait for his non-blushing bride.  Now that his mind was back on his own wedding and not her lack of one, Papa was once again fidgeting and nervous. Then Lunete appeared from the Chantry office on her son’s arm. 

Cait was fairly certain her father stopped breathing.

“Papa, inhale,” she whispered, and he gasped in a deep breath.  Glancing out the corner of her eye, she caught sight of a single tear tracing down her father’s cheek, and Caitwyn tried to blink back tears of her own.  He was  _ happy _ .  Papa was here, and he was  _ happy _ .  How long had he just  _ existed _ ?  Trying to discreetly wipe away her tears, she noticed Lorent’s eyes also watering to see his mother beaming with unrestrained delight. 

Mother Ostryd began to recite the usual passage, love and devotion, but then deviated from the Chantry standard.  The hard lines of her face softened for the barest moment as she regarded her old friend.

“Love can be found in the most unlikely of places, they say.”  Mother Ostryd’s tone was musing, then her lips twisted and she waved her hand as if dismissing the notion.  “I don’t know why they say that. Love is where it can always be found, between two people. Not  _ in _ another, but in the space between hearts, a bridge between souls.  Love is not something that graces us or falls upon us from heaven. Love is a choice, a choice you must make every day, to look at the other and say,  _ today again I chose you _ .  Some days are harder than others, and some days it is hardly a choice at all.  But it must be made all the same.”

Though she was supposed to be focusing on the couple getting married, Caitwyn couldn’t help but turn her head toward Alistair.  He sat in the front pew, Kieran at his side, and her heart tripped in her chest. The man she had chosen, the man whom fate had let her find, but it had been their choice to make one step after the next toward each other.  Their choices that had allowed them to stay alive and together. Their choices that had led them all the way to this moment where she carried his child.

All the little choices between then and now that had made up a history of love.

Alistair noticed her attention, and a grin flashed across his lips. He mouthed a silent  _ love you _ , and she returned the words to him.  She caught sight of Lorent and his partner Ven gazing at each other in the same fashion, and Caitwyn felt a little less guilty for thinking of herself on her father’s day.  Caitwyn sniffed, stifling further tears and turned her attention back to the point of the whole day.

Mother Ostryd signaled Kieran, and her son hopped to his feet, rings at the ready.  Caitwyn grinned to hear her father and Lunete pledge their love and devotion to each other while they exchanged rings.  Rings newly made for new love not found but chosen, as the Chantry Mother had said.

Then it was over, Mother Ostryd declaring them man and wife, and Papa attempted a caste kiss.  Lunete was having none of it, however and soundly kissed her new husband full on the mouth. Alistair’s laugh rang out in the Chantry, and Caitwyn’s quickly followed suit.  Applause erupted from the invited guests, and then the newlyweds were nearly traipsing down the aisle, regardless of their age.

“Lovely wedding,” Alistair said brightly as they followed behind Papa and Lunete down the main aisle of the Chantry.  He held Cait’s arm securely, because even though she could walk around just fine and she had managed to convince him she didn’t need coddling, Alistair never passed up on opportunity to hold her.  She hoped he always would find reasons to do so, for all their days to come.

“It really was,” Caitwyn agreed as they emerged onto the village green where it seemed half the village waited to extended their congratulations.  Though Lunete had wanted a quiet wedding, the whole population of Devon-by-Sea had turned out to congratulate their mayor in her new happiness. 

“Quick, too.  Made it even lovelier.  Though I do wonder why, on this happy occasion, your father is frowning at us now and again,” he mused.

“I might have told him that we’re technically not married,” Caitwyn said quickly and quietly, hoping no one would overhear.  That was the last thing they needed. Caitwyn thought Mother Ostryd might know. She had access to Chantry records after all, and no Caitwyn or Alistair Tabris would be logged in any Chantry book as married.  But if she knew, she had not said a word. Cait doubted Papa would say anything either, but to say that he had been shocked would be an understatement.

Though Cait thought it was only fair.  He had given her a turn recently after all.

“Ah, so, I should start running now, or?” Alistair asked, trailing off, glancing in the direction of the path out of the village.  Though a grin tugged at the corners of his mouth, and amusement danced in his eyes.

“I think you’re safe.”  She patted his arm and leaned into his shoulder as the crowd of well-wishers swelled around the newlywed couple.  “He seemed to find consolation in having grandchildren.”

“Oh good, because I’d hate to leave before the cake.”  Alistair’s voice was the very note of relief, and Cait pressed her face into his arm, trying to stifle a giggle and failing.  “What? You’re laughing at me, but this is deeply serious. Hetty made the cake, and it looks amazing.”

 

* * *

 

Summerday. 

The procession of the village youth had been early in the morning, a handful of young people all in white to signal they were of age.  That had been followed by the marriages, and two new couples were about to start their lives together in this little village. The women looked pleased as anything while the men seemed rather poleaxed about the whole affair.  Now that the official business was out of the way, the day was about to turn into a spring fair and festival.

Alistair had watched the celebrations all his life and never taken part.  Too young in Redcliffe to wear the white and walk in the procession with the marriageable youths.  When he had been old enough he’d been a Templar dedicate by that point and been at the monastery besides.  They had not celebrated Summerday in the traditional manner. A good deal more piety and fasting, and much less a day of frivolity and a celebration of youth and love.

Then as a Warden, Summerday hadn’t been something he’d paid attention to.  Most often he’d be on a darkspawn hunt, or chasing down another lead on the cure.  He had been away from the Vigil and Caitwyn more often than he had cared for over the years, but it had been unavoidable.  Duty had demanded much, though he had strained the bounds of his oaths as the years had worn on, until at last he had broken them all.  Though not before the Wardens had broken their faith first.

But now.  Now he walked across the village green, Cait on his arm, her hair free of its normal braid and crowned with delicate, white flowers.  Kieran’s little friends, Filla and Terje had been making those all day and presenting them to whomever they saw. He glanced at her as she waved to people they knew, but she did not seem inclined to go speak to anyone.  Instead, she stuck to his side wearing a new light green dress, altered to accommodate her growing belly, and he thought she glowed in the bright spring sunshine. 

She took his breath away, still.  He knew the cares that had left fine lines about her eyes, knew the fights that left scars on her body, and even saw a few grey hairs in her dark curls.  She was still the most beautiful woman he had ever seen, and today he got to walk with her in front of everyone. 

“Alistair?  Is something wrong?  You’re staring at me,” she said out the corner of her mouth while smiling and waving at Yena.  The dwarven woman had been delighted to handle selling the furs and feathers that Cait had brought in, taking only a modest seller’s fee so Cait wouldn’t have to deal with the peddlers that had come up from Gwaren. 

“What?  A man can’t admire the woman he loves?” he retorted, and she rolled her eyes, but her smile gave her away.  Leaning down to kiss her temple, he wrapped his arm more securely about her waist, or what was left of it thanks to the baby, and they passed by what the peddlers were selling.

They didn’t really need anything, and Cait only looked as a matter of habit, he thought.

The day warmed, food was brought out, Paedrick and Hetty outdoing themselves in feeding the village today.  Several others had brought food and drink, akin to the Harvest Festival, and Cait glanced longingly at the trays and trays of food.  People crowded around, eating their fill, and she licked her lips.

“You know, I could go  _ get  _ you something,” he offered, though not without some nervousness.  Cyrion and Paedrick and Jharon and Kennard had all warned him about pregnancy cravings.  Women going mad for the strangest and most bizarre foods and food combinations. Pickles featured prominently for some reason, but all the same Alistair was prepared to do anything to make sure Cait had what she wanted.

“Oh, that would be good.  I am hungry,” she said absently, eyes still fixed on the food. 

“How about cherries?  First ones of the season.”  She always liked fresh fruit, chasing after it like a fiend if given half the chance.  She pursed her lips, but shook her head. Right, no fruit. This was a  _ craving _ .  It couldn’t be what she normally liked.  Peering over the heads of everyone else, Alistair thought he spied another possible offering.  “How about a little cake? They look really good.”

“Maybe?”  Her face scrunched up, as if when she contemplated eating the cake she found the entire idea wanting.   Right, she wasn’t a sweet tooth, not really. Not like he was, so he’d gone too far in the wrong direction, clearly.

“Oh!  How about some fried fish?  Fresh caught and battered.”

“I guess.”  She leaned all her weight on him and groaned in despair.  “I’m hungry but nothing sounds good.”

“Well if you don’t know, I can’t help you,” he said, and he thought he’d affected the right teasing tone.  When she glared up at him, however, he realized how very, very wrong he had been. “Whoa! Alright, I’m sorry, I’m sorry.  Just… how about let’s sit down, and I go get you something to drink, hm? How’s that sound?”

Cait narrowed her eyes at him, but nodded.  There went his hope of getting her to dance today, though he wasn’t sure if he should have expected that anyway considering she was already sweating, overheating on even a mild day.  He found a quiet place for her to sit while he fetched her some drinks. Weaving through the crowd, he returned to her and sketched a bow, offering her a mug of cider, the pressed not fermented variety.  Morrigan had strongly suggested Cait avoid alcohol, which wasn’t difficult since she didn’t drink much anyway. The jugs had been sealed and left in the ocean for a week, so the contents were cold when hauled out.

“My love, for you.”  He sketched the most ridiculous bow he could manage, and it made her grin in spite of her earlier irritation and possibly persistent hunger.  With bird-like precision, she took the mug from him and he sat next to her on one of the benches that had been set up on the edge of the green.  He watched the crowd, alert for anything he’d have to deal with, but it was a beautiful day and no one seemed inclined to ruin it. Sipping on their cider, they cuddled close together.  It might not be dancing together, but this was good, too. At least they could be together in public on holidays now.

“My thanks,  _ vhenan _ .”  Her lilting voice danced along those words, and he adored hearing her call him that.  Well, after she’d told him what it meant.  _ Vhenan _ .  My heart.

She drank the cider in small sips while she idly ran a hand over her belly.  Over six months along now, and she was showing well and truly. Her small size made the pregnancy that much more obvious.  The longer they sat quietly drinking their cider, the more Caitwyn relaxed, and Alistair slowly backed away from the anxious mental edge of being ready to leap up and fetch her something at a moment’s notice.

“Alistair, look.”  Cait nudged him in the ribs with her elbow, gesturing with her mug toward the patch of space kept clear for dancing.  A few people had instruments and were playing while the youths in white danced, but a few others were there as well. The newlywed couples of the day, and some older married couples.  Jharon spun Hetty about, the tall woman still in her apron, pulled away from the kitchen by her Dalish husband. Next year, he promised himself. Next year they would dance on the village green.

But there were younger children there, too, and among them was Kieran.  Kieran dancing with Filla, Kennard and Brigid’s dark-haired daughter. 

“Hey!  Look at that.  You think he likes her?” he asked, grinning to see their son dancing with a village girl like he was any normal boy.   Then again, he  _ was _ a normal boy now.

“I think she likes him.  Him, I’m not so sure. He doesn’t seem terribly interested in girls,” Cait said thoughtfully.  He couldn’t help the small chuckle that escaped him at that. 

“He  _ is _ only eleven,” Alistair allowed.  “I thought girls were the worst until I was, oh, thirteen, I think.  But by then girls meant Chanty Mothers and Sisters and ugh.” With a grimace, he recalled the Mothers and Sisters at the monastery.  For the most part they had seemed determined to put young boys off of women for life, though there had been a few young Chantry sisters who had been rather pretty.  He knew better than to mention  _ that _ however.  Cait was hardly the jealous type, but Alistair thought it better to play that one safe.  She’d become terribly proprietary lately, and he would be lying if he said he didn’t enjoy it.  Just a little.

“Girls were the bane of your young life, then?” she asked as she looked at him over the rim of her mug, green eyes glinting with amusement in the afternoon sun.

“They were!  Always telling on me when I was just getting into something interesting,” he groused, putting far more feeling into his voice than necessary. 

“And that something interesting would be?”  Playing along, she smiled up at him and leaned in closer. 

“Food from the kitchens, to be perfectly honest,” he admitted, eliciting a bark of laughter from her.  “Or finding a family of frogs. Oh, I got in so much trouble when I put frogs in the maid’s rooms.”

“There’s just too much unfairness in the world, when a boy can’t put frogs in someone’s room without getting into trouble.”  She held a hand to her heart, as if taken aback by a sad tale, a false sympathy warring with mirth in her eyes.

“I know.  I’m still not over it.”  He sighed, overacting completely, but it never failed to make her smile, to make her laugh.  Acting the fool for her, because when it came down to it, he  _ was _ a fool for her.  There were, in general, worse things to be.

“I can see that,” she replied, laying her head on his shoulder.  She patted his leg, as if giving him comfort for age old slights.  Resting his chin on the top of her head, he held her close, and he felt her relax, almost like she was falling asleep. 

“Cait?  You feeling alright?” he asked, concern overtaking the playful joking of moments before.  He knew it was most likely that she was simply tired. She was giving life to another person, after all.  That had to be hard work. But still, he did not want to let any possible problem go unnoticed. They were far away from any magical aid for the time being, and even when she had been a Warden Cait had not been terribly robust.

“Yes!  Perfectly alright,” she told him, jerking back to full wakefulness.  Taking his hand, she placed it on her belly and held it there, knowing exactly what he worried about.  She always knew. “The both of us are just fine,  _ vhenan _ .  I’m just tired is all.”

“I know.  Silly of me, I know.  I just. I love you, and  _ you _ , little one,” he said, directing the last to the child that grew under her heart.  Then he felt a tell-tale movement against his hand, and a grin sprang onto his face.  “Hey! She kicked again. You think that means she likes me or doesn’t like me?”

“It means she likes trying to find my ribs,” Cait said with a grunt as she shifted about, trying and failing to get comfortable while their baby moved.  “I think I might go home early. Terribly old ladyish of me, but I could use a nap.”

“I’ll walk you home,” he offered, standing and helping her up.  It was so strange to have to help her stand or move about in general.  She had always been graceful that seeing her struggle and waddle was still jarring.  If it was jarring for him, he knew it had to be agonizing for her. She couldn’t climb trees anymore, and her tread was heavy, not the light step they were both used to.  More than one time he had watched as she bit back her complaints, muttering  _ this is a blessing, this is a blessing _ as to convince herself she shouldn’t get upset. 

Alistair was waiting for her to explode one of these days, and planned on finding good cover when she finally did.

“No, stay!  You’re supposed to watch out for trouble anyway.  You have a job, after all.” He did not need the reminder, and it was then his turn to sigh.

“This whole employment thing, it’s not very fun at times,” he grumbled, though he did like the work in general.  It was just that after having to spend so much time apart, it was difficult to give up what time he had with her.  At least now, in this place, they slept in the same bed every night, falling asleep without wondering if one of them would have to leave the next day, some mission or order cutting short whatever time they had.

“Terribly inconvenient, I know,” she replied, entirely unsympathetic.  Then again, she had been the arlessa and Warden-Commander at the same time.  She’d done enough work for a lifetime.

“Well, let me see if someone will walk with you.  Please, Cait?” he asked, which earned him something that was less than a full glare, but her expression was pointed all the same.  Rather than meet her head on, he pressed a kiss to her forehead and spoke softly. “I don’t think you’re an invalid. I know you’re capable, but please.  For my peace of mind.”

“You know that I can’t say ‘no’ when you put it like that right?” she challenged, eyes narrowed, but he knew he had won.  Fighting a grin of victory, he lifted her chin and kissed her full lips.

“I kind of count on it.”

 

* * *

 

“We’re out of Da’s eyeline,”  _ Mamae _ said, glancing back over her shoulder as they left the village proper and started on the path back to the house.  Kieran had offered to walk with  _ Mamae _ back to the house when Da had asked, though  _ Mamae _ didn’t seem terribly enthused about having him along.  “You can go back if you like,  _ da’len _ .  It’s your first Summerday here, and I thought you’d want to stay for all the games and things.  I’m fairly certain I can make it to the house without incident.”

“No, I said I would, so I should.”  He had promised that he’d look after  _ Mamae _ .  Not that she needed looking after, but it made Da feel better to know that she wasn’t alone.  That, however, was not the only reason. He stuffed his hands in his pockets as they walked, Violet and Oak running on ahead playing in the new, bright green spring grass.  “Besides, Filla wanted to keep dancing, and I didn’t want to, but I didn’t want to make her feel bad.”

“So you’re using your poor  _ Mamae _ as an excuse?  Kieran!” she exclaimed, hands fluttering like she was some lady at court, all flustered and surprised, though he knew she was only acting at it. 

“No!  I mean.  That’s not right, I don’t think.”  He knew what he meant, but he wasn’t sure how to explain it.  He kicked at the dirt and rocks on the path, trying to put his thoughts in order.  He knew  _ Mamae _ was only teasing, but he didn’t think it was very funny.  Seeing that he wasn’t joking, she wrapped an arm around him and squeezed him close.

“You want to talk it through?  Sometimes it helps, saying what’s going on in your head, and I should know.”  Her lilting accent was soft, and Kieran’s shoulders relaxed. His face scrunched up, as if trying to figure out what path he should take in the middle of a forest.

“I don’t know.  I do like Filla.  She’s my friend, of course I like her!” Kieran stressed, not sure why this was bothering him, only knowing that it was.  Friends could dance with each other, right? It was just different with Filla lately. She’d been nice to him since he started his lessons with everyone else, but he thought she was trying to be  _ nicer  _ lately.  “But I think she likes me in a different way.”

“It’s perfectly alright if you don’t like her back in the same way, Kieran.  No one says you have to,”  _ Mamae _ told him.  That made sense.  He knew it made sense, but he still felt funny about everything, though he couldn’t quite figure out why. 

They were almost at the house, and he half wanted to stay with her instead of going back to the Summerday celebration.  But Da would want to know that she was at the house, and he really  _ did _ want to go back and play some of the games.  He thought he could do a good job at the slingshot one.

“I know.  But I don’t want to hurt her,” he said, feeling entirely unprepared to tell Filla that he didn’t like her  _ that _ way but still wanted to be friends. “ _ Mamae _ , what do I say—

“Quiet.”  The word cut into his voice like a knife, and she held out her hand to stop him from taking another step.  Her eyes were fixed on the house, and the dogs were both alert, too, Oak’s rumbling growl filling the sudden silence of the day.  Even the birds had stopped singing.  _ Mamae _ glanced at him briefly, and Kieran’s breath sounded loud in his ears and his palms were sweaty.   _ Mamae’s  _ face was suddenly blank, like there was nothing worth reacting to.  “Kieran, stay here.”

“ _ Mamae? _ ” he asked, fear slithering through his belly, his mouth dry.  She turned, then, looking him full in the face with eyes hard as stone.

“Stay.  Here,” she ordered, and in a blink she wasn’t  _ Mamae _ anymore, or even Caitwyn.  She was the Warden-Commander of Ferelden, the Hero of the Fifth Blight.  A woman who had faced horrors and came out the other side. Then she let out a low whistle making both the dogs look to her for guidance.  “Violet, guard. Oak, on me.”

Unable to do anything but obey, Kieran watched nervously as  _ Mamae _ approached the house.  She paused in front of the door, and then signaled Oak.  The large Mabari shouldered the door open, which meant it was unlocked.  They never left the house unlocked or untrapped when they were all gone. Kieran wanted to grab her hand and run, to get out of there, but he felt rooted to the spot.  He tried to remember to breathe as she entered the house, and he wished he was bigger and older and better with a sword. Or that he had his sword on him, but even if he had it, he wasn’t sure if he could use it.  Did that make him a coward? That he was scared?

Then he heard a crash, a deep-chested bark, and a startled cry of pain.  Not from  _ Mamae _ , but a lower, masculine voice.

“Run, Kieran!  Run!”  _ Mamae  _ shouted, her voice ringing clear from the house.  There was another crash, and her voice came from the house gain, “Get your da!”

Kieran’s feet moved without bothering to wait for his brain and he headed for the door, but then Violet rammed her shoulder into him throwing him off balance.  It was only because of Da’s training that Kieran remained upright at all. He should get Da, he knew that, but he wanted to help. He had to help. She was his  _ Mamae _ .

Then his own personal nightmare came out of the house.  Gavin, the boy that had beat him up at the Harvest Festival, and Kieran ran. 

He didn’t think about where he was running, just that he had to go fast, faster than Gavin.  Trying to keep his breathing even, he pushed himself to go faster, all but throwing his body forward, his arms working at his sides.  Violet kept an easy pace with him, but for once, she didn’t run across his path or try to play. She knew this was serious.

Gavin was four years older than Kieran, however, with all the height and endurance that provided.  It didn’t take long for the youth to outpace him, and Gavin stood on the path, his arms held out wide as if he was going try to catch Kieran.  Violet interposed herself between them, her head lowering and a low, menacing growl rumbling from between her bared teeth. However, Gavin didn’t move.  Instead, he stood there, eyes that had once been cruel were now wild and afraid. Like an animal that had been beaten.

“What do you want?  Why are you doing this?!” Kieran yelled between heavy pants of breath. 

“It’s my da.  Tell your da. It’s my da and his mates.  Three of them,” Gavin said, and Kieran saw the marks on his arms, the bruising on his upper chest just visible above the collar of his shirt.  But Kieran still couldn’t quite believe this. Gavin had been so arrogant, so hurtful. When Kieran hesitated, Violet took a heavy step forward, her shoulders bunching to spring at the other boy.  Quickly, Kieran snapped his fingers, and she didn’t pounce.

“You don’t want to fight me?” he asked, hand digging into Violet’s fur.  Gavin shook his head, letting his arms go limp, no longer the imposing figure he had been in Kieran’s mind’s eye.

“No, look, I’m sorry alright?  Just get your da. He’s gonna hurt her, hurt her bad,” Gavin said, tears in his eyes, voice cracking on the last.  He stepped away from the path, and Kieran had a clear shot back.

Not needing any further encouragement, he started to run.  But then he thought of something.  _ Mamae _ was not helpless.  She was strong and clever and most importantly she was quick.  Turning around and running backwards, he cupped his hands around his mouth to shout.

“Tell her I got away!” he told Gavin, and then turned back around, redoubling his efforts.

“How?!” Gavin called after him.

“Just tell her!” Kieran insisted, shouting over his shoulder, and then there was no more time to talk.  All the breath in his lungs was reserved for running. Violet trotted behind him, watching his back. His lungs burned, and his legs screamed at him, but he kept going.  He broke past the low tumbled-down wall of the village, but didn’t slow down.

“Da!  Da!” he shouted, pushing whatever breath he had into that cry.  People turned to look at him, and he didn’t know what they saw, but he heard a wave of voices ripple through the crowd, and then there Da was, striding between people, sword on his hip, like a hero in a story.

“Kieran!  What is it?  What’s wrong?  Is it  _ Mamae _ ?  The baby?” Da asked, grabbing Kieran by the shoulders and giving him a quick inspection to assure himself that Kieran, at least, was alright.

“It’s Gavin’s da, and three of his friends.  They’re at the house,” he said between breaths, gulping down air as quick as he could.  “They’re trying to hurt  _ Mamae _ .”

For the second time that day, Kieran saw one of his parents go from familiar to someone he didn’t know.  Da’s hazel eyes went flat, and his jaw clenched. Da, silly, patient, kind Da, transformed into Warden Alistair of Ferelden, the man who had defeated Teryn Loghain in single combat, a slayer of darkspawn, and a warrior who had kept his skills sharp for over a decade.

Kieran almost felt sorry for the men stupid enough to hurt  _ Mamae _ .  Almost.


	16. The Fight Not Left Behind

Caitwyn tracked Hendyr’s movements.  He paced the floor of her home— _her home—_ occasionally glaring out the open doorway.  The men with him kept a portion of their attention turned to him, taking their lead from his agitation and anger.  Three other men— _shems—_ as scruffy and smelling nearly as strongly of drink as Hendyr himself.  They weren’t drunk, at least not right now. But the scent of alcohol had gotten into their clothes, their breath, their beards.  Even Oghren hadn’t smelled _that_ bad most of the time.

She kept her back to the wooden wall, one hand held protectively over her belly.  The baby was quiet, and she wondered if it could sense that they were in danger. _Mamae’s here, da’len,_ she thought to her child, knowing that no matter how much she was here, the worst could still happen.

Like it already had happened on a Summerday twelve years ago.  They day of her failed wedding, the day she’d been conscripted.

Hendyr kept himself positioned between her and the door.  He had grabbed her by her hair and pulled her back from the door as she had tried to warn Kieran, to get him to run.  She could have fought, could have killed them all quickly with the knife she kept on her, but not without a cost. A price she would not pay.  It had been more important to give Kieran time to run. Gavin, the boy that had hurt Kieran at the Harvest Festival, Hendyr’s son, had chased after _her_ son. Kieran had Violet and some basic fighting training from Alistair.  If he stuck to what he knew was right, he could escape. She could make her next move then.  One move after the next, and she would see her children were safe.

She watched as two of Hendyr’s men kept Oak cornered.  Oak was not war-trained, and she would not risk his life.  Not just yet. The Mabari crouched low in the opposite corner of the house, ears flat back and growling low in his chest at the men, but he made no move to pounce on them.  The men made no move to close either. As Fereldans, they had a healthy respect for what a Mabari could do. Another man sat huddled on her couch, bleeding hand clutched to his chest, glaring balefully at her.

He had been the one to run into her little trap.  The one on the door at least.

She had given it a lot of thought, what kind of trap to set, and she had settled on something non-lethal, owing to the fact that Kieran and his friends had a tendency to come and go as they pleased.  Kieran knew to unlock the door, and his friends had been warned, but she hadn’t wanted to see any of the children seriously hurt.

Now, she thought maybe she should have made a more deadly trap.  Something with shrapnel.

Already, she could see this wasn’t going how Hendyr had thought it would.  He must have been observing her somehow, but not closely. She knew her habits, and though her pregnancy had made it harder to move silently through the forest, she doubted they had been spending time tracking her in the wild expanse.  However, they had likely been watching her during the activity in the village earlier today. Seeing her leave with only Kieran while everyone else was occupied must have been too tempting an opportunity to pass up.

So a plan, but one that had relied on luck and low cunning more than any real method.

In her mind, she smiled, and she flexed the fingers of her hand behind her back, little stretches Zevran had taught her years ago, ready to fight and use a dagger with blinding dexterity.  A shadow darkened the still-open door. Gavin stepped through the doorway, a lanky young man, who had once been a cocky, self-assured boy. Winter had not been kind to him. His shoulders rounded forward, and his eyes reminded her of a cornered animal’s, furtive and anxious.  Those scared blue eyes went to her first, and he licked his lips.

Kieran was not with him.

“Da,” Gavin said, cringing in anticipation of a blow.  For all the pain he had caused her son, Caitwyn only saw a boy before her now.  A boy who had been built up by his father’s hate, and then worn down by it, powerless to stop what had been done to him.  Hendyr rounded on his son, eyes narrowed as he noticed a lack of Kieran in tow. Gavin shuffled backwards, trying to stay out of his father’s reach, and Caitwyn suddenly had another child to protect.

Maker help her for her soft heart.

“Where’s the boy?  You were supposed to get the boy,” Hendyr hissed, closing with his son and grabbing him by the back of his shirt.  Gavin hunched more and tried to make himself smaller, as if that would ablate his father’s rage. “Now that bloody swaggering son of a bitch is going to have warning.”

Caitwyn held her breath, sinking into her old fighting habits, letting the moment stretch in her mind’s eye.  Hendyr’s hand raised up, and Gavin braced for the impact. The men cornering Oak were glancing back at father and son, distracted by the tableau.  The injured man wound a strap of torn cloth around his hand, staunching the blood flow and turned his head to watch a man beat his son.

No one was watching Caitwyn, and no one had direct eyes on Oak.  Now was her chance.

Hendyr’s hand closed into a fist, and Caitwyn moved.  She was gratified that some of her reactions were still as she remembered them, lightning quick, and she side-stepped into the small kitchen and grabbed a knife.  Twirling it in her fingers, she held it by the blade and threw, aiming for Hendyr’s shoulder. It struck true, and Hendyr cried out in pain and clutch at his arm instead of hitting his son.  Simultaneously, she whistled, and Oak lunged forward teeth clamping down on one man’s leg, another scream filling her small house. The chaos of a fight erupted around her, and she watched it all happen with familiar detachment.  The two men on Oak changed the grip on their daggers and were about to stab her dog.

“To me!” she ordered.  Oak let go of the man’s leg and bowled into the other, knocking him into his companion and sending them both tumbling to the floor as they tried not to stab each other.  The injured man stood and tried to get in her way, but she unsheathed the knife she kept on her and jammed it into his knee as she dashed past him.

“You bitch!” the man screamed at her as he collapsed back on the couch.  He clutched at his knee, blood flowing freely from the wound. It had taken less than half a heartbeat to get this close to the door.  If she could get out and get to the tree line, she could buy herself time. Buy Alistair time to get here, and Maker help them when he did.

Only Hendyr and Gavin were in her way now.  Gavin backed away from his father, but did not block the open doorway.  Caitwyn knew for certain then he was trying to help in any way he could manage while not alerting his father.

Hendyr was a different story.  Eyes blazing with hate-fueled rage, he lurched for her, grabbing for her with his one good arm.  Elves, he had muttered at her, elves and all non-humans coming into his village, sullying the blood of good humans.  He’d wanted her to hurt, to hurt the half-breed she carried, his words rotten from the inside out. An example, he’d wanted.

She’d give him an example all right.  One he wouldn’t soon forget.

Twisting her index and middle fingers together, she aimed right for the hollow of his throat as he closed in on her.  Her mother had taught her that, years ago as a little girl in the Alienage. With his bulk coming toward her the impact was hard, and he choked as she hit true.  He stumbled away from her, holding his hand to his throat, trying desperately to get his breath back.

Caitwyn did not bother to give any of them a backwards glance.  Instead, she ran out the door, gratified that Oak kept pace beside her.  The tree line. She had to make it to the tree line. It was far, far closer than the village and her best chance in her current condition.  Gathering up her skirts in one hand, she ran as fast as she could, but not as fast as she hoped.

“Get her!” came the strangled cry behind her.  She hadn’t collapsed his windpipe. A pity that.  The man with two bloody injuries would not be a problem.  He was too hobbled to move quickly, but Oak had only managed to bite one other man.  They would be her pursuers alongside Hendyr himself. That shoulder injury wouldn’t slow him down much, and he had a madness in him now.  He wouldn’t stop. He couldn’t stop.

“Oak, attack,” she ordered between panting breaths.  It made her heart sick to do it. They would kill him if he wasn’t careful.  He was the one she had trained the most, but she had trained him to be a hunting companion.  Though she had started on some fighting training after Zevran’s warnings of months ago, he wasn’t the war dog she once had.  Without pause, the dog picked up his pace to run around her in a bend, aiming himself at her pursuers. She heard the impact, the screams, and the growl.  If he had been hurt, he did not yip or yowl. Like his sire in that respect.

Her legs burned; it had been too long without having to actually run anywhere, and she had all that extra weight to carry.  The tall grass felt like the ocean, a solid thing keeping her from going faster, tugging at her dress, but she pressed on. Then like finding shelter in a Chantry, she reached the trees.  Their tall forms reared into the sky shading her from the glare of the afternoon sun. Once under the trees she stopped, getting her breath back, listening to the fight behind her.

Knowing it was a risk she let out a high, piercing whistle calling Oak off his attack.  It wasn’t the call to her though, and he was possibly smart enough to try to lead the men away from her, to take another track through the forest to find her.  He knew her scent, and he would not get lost. But the men had seen where she had gone, and she couldn’t count on them following Oak. That meant she had to move.

“Come on, Caitwyn, move your bloody legs,” she grit out, voice low and harsh in the cool, slightly damp forest air.  Taking in a breath of that air, she removed the sash from under her belly and tied up the dress around her legs, making it easier to move.  Then she let herself sink into the feel and shape of the forest. One step, then another, these were _her_ woods.  She knew them, and they knew her, and like hell would she let these damned _shems_ destroy the life she had built here.

Not ever again, she had promised herself.  Not. Ever. Again.

The baby chose that moment to kick, perhaps in agreement or fear; she didn’t know.  But Caitwyn’s heart had gone from beating too quickly, to a slow measured pace. She was in control now, and she ran a hand over her belly and said in a quiet, soothing voice, “Quiet now _da’len_ .   _Mamae’s_ here, and Da’s on his way.  You’re going to be just fine.”

Then she melted into the shadows.

 

* * *

 

Alistair’s world narrowed.  The noise of Summerday turned into a distant hum, and even Kieran faded away from his world.  What mattered, the _only_ thing that mattered was getting to Cait.  Was protecting the love of his life and their unborn child.  Fire raced along his mind, searing everything else away as he thought of that, of their unborn child in danger.  He wanted to rage, to scream, to charge right there and kill the bastards who thought they could hurt his family.  But his son stood in front of him, looking at him with wide, terrified eyes. His son needed to know he had done the right thing.

“Kieran, you did good,” he managed to say, voice more steady than he would have imagined.  “But you stay here. You stay with your grandpa—”

“I can come!  I can fight!” Kieran protested, and Alistair reacted before he could stop himself.

“No!” he snapped.  Kieran flinched, and Alistair sighed, running a hand over his face.  Panicked thoughts sped through his mind like race horses, the metaphorical hooves pounding into his head, making it hard to think.  Clenching his jaw, he breathed out sharply, and tried to catch Kieran’s eye. The lad had half turned away, startled by Alistair’s sudden anger, but Alistair must have controlled his expression somewhat because Kieran stopped avoiding his gaze.

“Kieran, please.  I don’t have time to argue with you.  I need you to stay here and be safe. I can’t protect you both right now,” he said, willing his voice not to break.  Out the corner of his eye he saw Cyrion approaching, and more than a few people craning their necks and perking their ears for a hint of what was causing all the commotion.  Kieran ducked his head and nodded.

“Thank you.”  Alistair let out a pent up breath and stood, though he kept his hand on Kieran’s shoulder.  Cyrion rushed forward, Lunete not far behind them.

“Alistair? What’s going on?  Is it Cait?” Cyrion asked in a rush.  Gently, Alistair nudged Kieran at the older elf, and by reflex, Cyrion put an arm around the boy’s shoulders and held him close.  Lunete’s bright blue eyes were decidedly not jovial, more like chips of ice in her round face. She knew. They had talked about Hendyr Alrect and his threats and drinking; this was not entirely a surprise to her.  Alistair had hoped come spring the man would cool off, get back to his fields and work. Find something better to do.

That had been a vain hope, apparently.

“I need to move, and now.  No time for questions,” he said, and Lunete already had her husband in hand, steering Cyrion and Kieran both away from Alistair.

“Cyrion, husband dear, I’ll tell you everything, just come away now, the both of you,” she said, but Alistair had already turned to go.  Only to find Kennard and Gregor standing at the ready. Both men had been nearby, no doubt hearing Kieran’s shout. Both had the same grim, determined set to their jaws.

“Armsman or no, one man against four ain’t a smart bet,” Gregor rumbled, his dark eyes glinting with rage.  He’d married Yena, the sunny dwarven shopkeep, and no doubt he wanted no one to think that they could hurt a non-human woman in this village.  The man had a nasty looking fish-knife in his hand, and Alistair would bet that he knew how to use it. Kennard looked less self-assured, but he nodded in agreement with Gregor.

“Then let’s move,” Alistair said, accepting the help rather than arguing against it.  Not bothering to see if they could keep up, Alistair broke into a ground-eating lope.

He didn’t have his shield or his full armor, and even though the men attacking Cait might be farmers, they were bound to be strong, tough men.  Having more men on his side might mean the difference between life and death for Cait. And the baby. Sharp, cold fear lanced through his chest like a blade of ice at the very thought.  His mind threw up images of Cait bleeding out, a horrific mish-mash of the Tower of Ishal, where she had almost bled to death stabbed by a Genlock, and a nightmarish picture of her belly cut open, red blood staining the floorboards of their home.

With a nearly physical wrench, he fixed his thoughts and let the anger burn away his fear.  How dare they, _how_ **_dare_ ** _they_ try to hurt Caitwyn.  If they had any idea who she was, they’d fall on their faces in awe and thanks for all she had done for this country.  How _dare_ they try to hurt the woman he loved, the woman who had suffered all her young life at the hands of human men, who had fought the scars in her own mind to love _him_.  The woman who had sacrificed and given and done everything she could for those who needed her.

Through the haze of his steadily building rage, he noticed someone else on the path toward the house.  Gritting his teeth, he picked up his pace and skidded to a halt when he saw Jharon moving at a steady clip, massive smith’s hammer held easily in one hand.  Alistair drew even with the Dalish craftsman, and Jharon’s dark eyes held a searing anger all their own, though his face was perfectly composed. Of course, men attacking an elven woman would prompt Jharon to action.

Alistair nodded once, and in silence the four men continued north, and the sight that greeted them made hands tighten on weapons.

The door hung open, an ominous, gaping darkness against the light of the spring sun, and the little spring garden had been trampled.   Bright green shoots that had barely any time to grow had been ground under by heavy booted treads. Alistair tried not to see his future in that patch of ground.  Insects buzzed and churipped in the long grass, and the crash of the waves on the shore all reached him, but from the house there was no noise. Jaw clenched, Alistair took point, advancing up the steps, and letting his eyes adjust to the dimmer light inside the house.

The house was in disarray.

Cait liked to keep everything neat and tidy, a place for everything and everything in its place.  She would hate how it was now. Chairs tipped over, the table shoved roughly aside, the rugs turned up and scrunched against the walls, the signs of a struggle.  Then a spot of white caught his eye.

The flowers she had worn in her hair, pretty little white blooms, scattered on the floor.  The delicate petals were bruised and crushed, already turning brown at the breaks. His heart lurched seeing that.  Cait had fought. She had always fought.

Then he heard a low groan coming from the couch.  Heart as hard as stone, he strode over to see a man curled up on the floor clutching at his knee.  The sight elicited a grim smile from him, seeing Cait’s handiwork all over him. His hand bled from the trap she’d rigged to the door, Cait’s blood stained knife lay beside him, and the hole in the knee of his breeches told him why this man was still here.

“Andraste’s tears!” Kennard exclaimed, the farmer not prepared for a sight like this.  He might slaughter an animal for food, but violence like this was not supposed to happen in Devon-by-Sea.  The darkspawn, demons, they were evil, their violence a matter of course. But the violence of men always took others by surprise.

Alistair had no time or thought for cushioning the blow to Kennard’s world view.  Instead, he glared down at the groaning man, who had finally noticed that someone was standing over him.  Scruffy, unkempt. He wasn’t from Devon-by-Sea, but people in these parts had friends all up and down the string of villages along the coast.  With clear intent, Alistair placed his booted foot just over the man’s already injured knee.

“Where is she?  What was the plan?” he asked, tone sharp and peremptory, a dagger in and of itself.  The man glared up at him, huddled but not cowed. Hawking back, the man made to spit, and without any warning, Alistair ground his boot into the man’s knee, making him scream.  Cait would hate someone spitting on the floor of their home.

“Not going to ask again,” he said flatly, gesturing low with his sword.  It wasn’t the sword he had used as a Warden, but it was sharp, and that was all that really counted right now.

“Hendyr wanted her roughed up!  Wanted to make an example of her!  But that bitch,” he said, and Alistair pressed down on the knee again.  Voice strangled, the man shouted, “Stop! Stop! She cut her way out, her and that _dog_ .  Made for the tree line.  Didn’t see it. None of them stayed to help me anyway, not even the boy, coward that _he_ is, so I figure I don’t owe them nothing.”

“Did Hendyr tell you what kind of example he wanted to make?” Jharon asked, sitting back on his heels in front of the man, capturing his attention with inscrutable eyes and the bold marks of the vallaslin on his face.  That the smith held his hammer with a good deal of emphasis didn’t escape the notice of the injured man either.

“Said a good village shouldn’t tolerate non-humans and half-breeds.  Too many, made him sick. Had to… had to cut them out. Like a bad spot,” the man babbled, eyes wide as he realized the sheer array of anger leveled at him in this moment.  Alistair’s anger rose to a boil, searing, scalding, but he held the lid on it. Barely.

“Kennard,” he said quietly.  “You get him back to the village.  Lunete will know what to do with him.”

“Of course, of course, but,” Kennard began to say, about to demur that he had no weapon.  Alistair knew that and had already moved to fix it. He headed into the bedroom he shared with Cait, Cait who was in the forest now.  In the forest. She was deadly in and amongst the trees. A shadow, an artist with traps, and she knew these woods. She could last until he arrived.  She would.

Kneeling down he lifted up a floorboard, not caring who saw.  No time to be discrete, he shifted Cait’s lockbox and a few other things, and lifted out a cloth wrapped scabbard.  Undoing the ties, he drew his sword, the one he had to leave behind in the Vigil just steps ahead of Clarel’s orders, the one that glinted in the dark of the Deep Roads.  A Warden’s sword, the cross-piece finely detailed silverite griffons, wings flaring and beaks open in a silent cry of defiance.

Kennard and Gregor both stared at him with wild, wide-eyed shock as he returned.  Jharon merely raised one dark eyebrow, but said nothing.

“That’s a—” Gregor began, but Alistair spoke over him, picking up the plainer sword by the cross-piece and handing it point down to Kennard.

“Take this with you when you escort him to the village.  He shouldn’t give you trouble. If he does, go for the already injured knee.  He can hobble along that way,” Alistair said.

“Yes, ser,” Kennard said, and had it been any other set of circumstances, Alistair would have winced at the honorific.  As it was, it got the results he needed. One man accounted for, the rest of the village alerted as to what was going on.  The rest could be sorted out later.

“Good man,” he said, clapping the farmer on the shoulder.  He was a gentle man, not prepared for whatever they would find in the forest anyway.  Gregor was only a fisherman, but he had been in the army in his younger days, so the story went, though Gregor never said himself.  Still, he carried that knife like he knew how to use it for more than gutting fish. And Jharon, well. A man of a Dalish clan was no stranger to doing what needed to be done to protect his family.

Alistair didn’t know how far he would go.  Not yet, but he knew what he had done, had done in the name of the Wardens and the men he had befriended and lost, had done to keep Caitwyn whole and alive, had done and endured to protect his son.  It could stretch the limits of what a good man was, all he had done, but he had made a promise to her.

He would do anything for this family, and he would not balk now.

 

* * *

 

Caitwyn tied her hair back with a bit of twine, keeping the curls off her neck and out of her face.  It was left over from the snare trap she had set. Oak had not returned to her, though she could hear him barking in the distance.  A hunter, not a warrior like his sire, he had still drawn the men away and begun to harass them at their flanks, putting them on the back foot.

It had given her the chance to get to one of her caches, allowing her to pick up some supplies before burying it again.  It had not been long, and already she was tired. Moving through the forest, through wild spaces had once been effortless, as natural to her as breathing.  Once upon a time, she had been able to go for days without proper rest. Once upon a time she had been a Warden. And not pregnant.

Simple facts that changed a good deal.  Such as how far she could run. But sheer physicality had never been her greatest strength.  Quick and deadly she might be, but time and again it was her _mind_ that had been her greatest asset.  To think faster than those around her, to find solutions where no one thought to look in the first place.  

Time.  She needed time, unwilling as she was to risk a direct confrontation in her condition.  Time enough for Alistair to make it to the house, time enough for him to realize there was only one place she _would_ go.  And then time enough to find her.  If they had still been Wardens he could have tracked her down easily through their connection to the Taint, but they were not Wardens any longer.  She had not thought she would miss anything about being a Warden, but the bright spot of him was gone from her mental landscape. However, that did not mean she was without recourse.  She had left a trail for him to find. It was an old system they had worked out during the Blight before they had been able to sense each other and kept up for when she had scouted far ahead, breaking certain branches and arranging some rocks _just so_.

A twig snapped, and rather than let it startle her into movement, she sank closer to the ground, grateful for her dark coloring and the green dress she wore.  The damp leaves of last autumn rustled underneath her, but it blended into the sounds of the forest. She kept her breathing even and easy, and slowly scanned the area around her.

Nothing moved, and the air was still.  Too still. Not even birds sang. This time of year they should have been a riot, all mating and territory calls.  Working a bit of the twine and metal shards in her fingers, she started to fashion a makeshift weapon. She had not been able to take another knife with her when she had run out of the house, and had intended to rely on traps.

Oak suddenly stopped barking.

In the cool air under the canopy of the trees, her eyes peered into the patchy light that filtered through the green leaves.  Ears alert for any sound, she barely breathed, and waited.

 

* * *

 

Kieran peered around Grandpa as Kennard told Lunete what had happened at the house.  Da’s sword in hand, Kennard had dragged in a sullen, injured man, sending a ripple of shocked whispers through the people on the village green.  It was just like at Court, when someone had done something foolish or bad, and everyone waited to see how they would be punished. It made Kieran squirm to remember those days.  He had not liked those days.

Lunete had ushered Kennard and his prisoner into the Chantry, where she, Mother Ostryd, and Paedrick were all talking together in hushed tones.   Grandpa had followed his wife, and no one had told Kieran to go away. So here he was, waiting while _Mamae_ was in danger and Da went to help.  He’d been so scared, and even though Da had told him, had _told_ him that he had to stay, Kieran’s stomach was in knots.  He should have told _Mamae_ not to go into the house.  He should have done something, anything, even letting Violet fight would have been better than keeping her to himself and running away.

Safely in a building, Grandpa didn’t watch him so closely.  He was focused on the man and what he was saying, how non-humans should be driven out, how half-breeds were a sin against the Maker.  Kieran’s hands curled into tight fists, and his chest rose and fell quickly as his breathing was harder and harder to keep even. Grandpa just looked sad, like he had heard this all before.  Kieran had, too. In Val Royeaux, with all the nobles talking about elven servants like they were animals sometimes, or how dwarves were all lowly and cunning, and qunari were all vicious and unfeeling.

But they were wrong.  They were all _wrong_.

“Kieran, no!” Grandpa shouted as Kieran broke for the door, Violet at his heels.  No one was close enough to grab him, and he was out of the Chantry and running before anyone could stop him.  He’d run away at first. And Da had said to stay with Grandpa, to stay safe, but it wasn’t right. It wasn’t fair.

Avoiding the crowd, Kieran moved quickly through the narrow gaps between the houses so no one would notice him.  But then unexpected movement caught his eye. Someone else was trying to slip through the village without other people noticing, too.  Maybe it was someone coming to try to hurt other people like Dyfan and his baby sister, because they were half-breeds like the baby. Or maybe Yena and Terje.  Or Grandpa.

Shifting from foot to foot, he tried to decide.  To go help Da or catch someone else who might hurt someone _here_ , where they weren’t expecting anything.  Violet whined, though quietly. She wanted to know what to do, too.

“Come on,” he told her, and headed back, following the person who was sneaking about.  Quickly, he caught up to the person, and sucked in a hard breath. At the noise, Gavin turned around, his blue eyes wide, but Kieran’s gaze focused on the blood on the youth’s hands.

Red blood, already dried and flaking off, but blood all the same.

It was like his brain caught fire, burning away all his other thoughts and Kieran launched himself at the older boy.  He juked to the right only to spring off the ball of his foot and come in from the left, tackling Gavin around the middle.  They crashed into the dirt between the houses, Violet clamping her teeth around his leg, ready to give a vicious shake of her heavy head.

“What did you do?!” he cried, hot tears running down his face.   _Mamae_ , _Mamae_ had been hurt.  They might have hurt the baby.  The baby he was _supposed_ to protect.  He had failed as a big brother already, and Gavin was part of that.  He had let Kieran go, told him to warn Da, but now came back with blood on his hands.  Kieran didn’t know what to think, and his vision swam. Gavin’s hands flew up to protect his head, and his too-loose sleeves fell away from his arms.

That was when Kieran saw burns, the scars.

“Please, please, not here to fight.  I’m sorry about what I did, alright? Please just listen, I need help.   _Please_ ,” Gavin begged, and Kieran lowered his fists.  He’d been about to hit another person, not to defend or help, but because he’d been angry.  That wasn’t right. He couldn’t make things right that way, and his face flushed with shame.  Standing, Kieran brushed himself off, though he didn’t offer Gavin a hand up either. Violet let go of the older boy’s leg, and Gavin sat up, shoulders curling forward.

“Your… _Mamae_ , yeah?  That’s what you call her?  She got away. Stabbed my da, and Darred, the fella in the Chantry.  It’s their blood, not hers. I _promise_ ,” Gavin said, and Kieran frowned down at the boy.  Violet nudged her head under his hand, and he leaned on her to be strong.  He thought about what Mother would do, in a situation like this, and so he just raised one eyebrow and tried to look as disbelieving and unimpressed as possible.  It had worked wonders on annoying courtiers, and it did just as well on village youths.

“I _swear_.  My da, he had a bad winter, worse than usual.  Hit me a lot, but then, then he hit my mum. That’s why I need help.  I need to get my mum away from him. Please. I know I don’t deserve help, but you can help me explain to all them, to Mother Ostryd and Mayor Neam, right?  I let you go, I gave you that warning for your da, right? Please?” he begged, and Kieran did his best to keep his face from betraying his confusion. Here was the boy who had hurt him and hit him and told him terrible things, who was bigger and stronger than him, but was now pleading for help.  For Kieran’s help.

“You helped my _mamae_ as best you could right?” he asked, and Gavin nodded.  “Then I should help you with your mum.” Gavin’s face flushed with relief, and the cringing, scared youth became a little more like the old, confident person he had been half a year ago.

Kieran held out his hand, and Gavin took it and stood.

Kieran didn’t know if he had done the right thing.  He still wanted to go help Da and _Mamae_ , but then he thought about how so many people were ready to help them, that maybe they had enough.  Someone had to help people like Gavin and his mother, too.

It was what was right.

 

* * *

 

Alistair’s fingers brushed the broken twig on a low bush.  It looked haphazard, something an animal might do, but the small rock perched carefully on the crux of the bent twig told him Cait had been this way.  Their old code, picked up and cobbled together and worked out years ago. Yet, for the first time since he had been cured, he wished he hadn’t been. If they’d still been Tainted, he could have gone to her straight away, followed the whisper and flicker of her in his mind to her.  But that connection was gone now, and he was thankful Cait never believed in relying on it. He levered himself back up, leaning on his sword that he had stabbed in to the ground.

Jharon winced when Alistair withdrew it, but it would take more than a bit of dirt to dull _this_ particular blade.

“She kept due west,” he said, and wove between the towering trees.  He might not be as good at disappearing in a forest as Cait, but he knew enough to get by.  Jharon kept pace easily, and Gregor moved like he’d done some scouting in his younger years.  Neither man said anything, merely nodding, and followed him.

Then he heard a deep, resonant bark ringing through the cool air, bouncing back and forth off of the tree trunks.  Oak. That had to be Oak. Without a word, Alistair took off running, and he burst into a clearing to see two men, likely more companions of Hendyr’s, flanking the dog, baiting him.  Oak already had a nasty looking cut along his side, and was favoring his back right leg.

Cait was nowhere to be seen, but that didn’t mean she might not be close by.

No matter what, there would be less threat to Cait if these two men were subdued.  Alistair charged, switching the grip on his sword to drive the pommel into the man’s gut rather than slit him from belly to chin.  If they’d left Cait somewhere, he might need them alive to find her. The man doubled over, clutching at his stomach. Alistair whirled to deal with the other one, only to find Jharon bringing down his hammer on the man’s arm as he made to stab at Alistair’s unprotected back.  With a sick, wet crunch, the arm broke, and the man screamed. Then Gregor was there, wrestling the first man to the ground and kicking his dagger out of his hand.

A short, nasty fight.  Not much of one, not to someone who had fought darkspawn and demons and dragons in his life, but Alistair would take a quick, easy fight when it came to this.

“Where is she?” he asked without preamble.  Oak, injured and bleeding, lowered his head and growled.  A full grown Mabari was a hell of an intimidation tactic.

“ _Fuck_ , you broke my arm!” one of the men yelled, glaring up at Jharon.  The smith merely hefted his hammer and stared down at him, face impassive.

“You have another to break, still,” Jharon told him, and the man blanched.

“We don’t know!” the other main exclaimed, rising to his knees and clasping his hands together in a show of being helpful.

Alistair crouched to look the man in his eyes, laying his sword across his knees.  The blade drew the eyes of both men, bright and sharp and hungry in the light that streamed in through the branches of the trees.  The man had to tear his gaze away from the sword to meet Alistair’s gaze. His eyes were a warm blue, eyes that might be kind or loving to those whom this man cared for, but all Alistair saw was a man who thought hurting a woman for sport was a pleasant way to spend an afternoon.  Whatever the man saw in Alistair’s eyes, however, made him recoil.

Standing, Alistair snapped his fingers and Oak trotted to his side, limping but otherwise not too poorly off.

“Good boy,” he said, giving the dog a pat on the head, trying to think of what to do next.  Cait was out there somewhere, leaving a trail for him to find, but he didn’t want either of these two men to get away.  “Gregor, you have any twine on you?”

“Hrm, might do,” the fisherman said.  He patted down his jerkin and came up with a string of twine, two lures, and one scrap of paper that seemed to have been in his pocket when it was washed last.  Not needing to be told what to do, he bound the men’s hands behind their backs, looping the twine to their belts for good measure. The man with the broken arm whimpered and cried throughout the process, but there was no time to set the arm or even care about it.

“You both take them back to the village,” Alistair ordered, but Jharon shook his head.

“You’ll need another man with you.  These men will not cause any trouble for Gregor, especially not if Oak goes with him,” the smith said, deep voice even and implacable.

“Hey now!  I don’t need a dog’s help,” Gregor protested, and Oak sniffed as if _he_ wouldn’t need the help.  Jharon breathed out slowly, his dark eyes narrowing, and he turned to the fisherman, as if insulted that he had to explain anything.  The threat of bickering made Alistair grind his teeth, and his hand closed tighter around the grip of his sword, the leather creaking with the strain.

“Don’t,” was all he said, and every man and dog in the clearing froze.  “Gregor, take these men back, and get Oak looked at. Those wounds could fester, and Cait won’t thank me if her dog dies.  Jharon, let’s go.” Gregor blinked, taken aback at the sharp tones of command, but he did as ordered and prodded the two men until they were up on their own two feet and moving.  Oak walked sedately on the other side of the men, his heavy head tilted to keep one eye on them, a low growl carrying to Alistair’s ears long after they disappeared from sight between the trees.

Three men accounted for.  Just the last to find. The last to find and deal with.

 

* * *

 

Hendyr appeared through a thicket of young trees.   Caitwyn watched him from her hiding place, in and amongst dense undergrowth.  She had decided to stay put, to fortify her position as best she could. To keep moving would mean that it would take that much longer for Alistair to find her.  She had given some thought to trying to circle back, to try to get closer to Alistair, but he would be following the trail she had left him. As much as she hated fighting from a defensive position, it was her best option for the current situation.  Her mind raced, trying to parse out the minutes since she had sent Kieran running away. How long it would take him to reach the village, how long it would take Alistair to get to the house, then to get to the forest, then to her, and then comparing that time to how long she had spent ghosting between the trees.

He should be close.

Should be.

She kept her eyes on Hendyr, but otherwise did not move.  Eyes and ears were best at detecting change, movement or new noise, and she drew on every trick she had to keep hidden.  Maker, what she wouldn’t give for her war bow, but that was hidden away, along with her mother’s dagger and the other tools of her former trade.  All she had were her wits and her traps, and she did not know if that would be enough against one man’s hate.

Hendyr scanned the area around him, and she knew better than to try to sink back further into the bushes.  That would only catch his attention. Instead, she held her nerve and did not move. He grunted and knelt, and then she heard a quiet _snick_ as he disarmed her trap.  It had been a simple one, her best supplies still at the house.  All she had was some twine and some metal shards.

“You’re close then, you little knife-eared slut,” he growled, eyes casting about once more.  “I bet you’re hoping he comes to your rescue. Woulda had some sympathy for him, a good man seduced by elf cunny, but I saw him today with you.  Like he was with a good human woman. Made me sick, it did.”

Caitwyn knew that mantra by heart; she’d heard it enough in her life.  Instead of let herself wallow in her anger, she considered her options as he circled her position.  She didn’t have a knife, but she had fashioned a little surprise for him. The problem was that he’d have to get close for her to use it.  Twisting the ends of the twine around her fingers, she was mindful of the sharp metal she had carefully strung along it. Little razors on twine, not an elegant or even efficient weapon, but it would do.  If he presented his back to her, if she decided the risk was worth it.

He stepped closer, almost close enough, and she measured her breathing carefully.  Nothing to give her away, nothing to provide a warning. It would be messy, she knew, and she had a brief flicker of sympathy for his son, for his wife, but she had to hope that they would not grieve long, rid of this brutal stain of a person on their lives.  Like a snake, she struck, shooting up from her crouch and whipping the twine over his neck, her other hand reaching to catch the free end and pull back, to cut his damned throat.

The twine and metal bit into his throat, drawing blood, but Hendry’s hand shot up, and he closed his fingers around the make-shift razor wire she had made.  With considerable strength he dragged it forward off his neck. Caitwyn let the twine go, not about to get pulled into a tug-of-war with the man. Instead, she turned her shoulder, and took his elbow to her back instead of her middle, but she did not let the pain stop her.  She’d had worse, and she pivoted on her feet to make another run for it. If his blood loss started to slow him down, she might be able to lose him again. This time she would head south rather than west, headed for the village. More people, more witnesses.

His good hand clamped around her arm, and she lashed out with her foot behind her, striking his knee hard.  He grunted, but did not let go, dragging her down with him as he fell. His heavy body loomed over her, and she scrabbled, throwing her elbow behind her to ward him off.  The baby kicked, and she swallowed back her rising bile. She could live, perhaps, but her child might not, and the very thought threatened to drive all reason from her. Heart fluttering like a caged bird, she grit her teeth and threw her head back.  The impact made her vision swim, but Hendyr’s cry of pain was deeply satisfying as he recoiled from the strike. Her hair felt sticky, and she knew she had drawn blood again.

Then she heard crashing through the forest, feet moving fast, not making any effort to hide their approach.

She wanted it to be Alistair, but couldn’t be certain.  Oak had not found her again, and she had not heard his barking for some time.  He might be dead, dead at the hands of Hendyr’s friends, and for all she knew it might be those men who dashed to their position now.  Getting her hands underneath her, she began to lever herself back up, only for Hendyr to throw his full weight on her, pinning her to the ground.  His hand held her down between her shoulder blades, not allowing any air into her lungs, and her breathing became labored. Her hands scrambled for purchase, for something, anything to strike back with.  But all her hands found was soft dirt and spring-damp sticks. Nothing hard, nothing sharp.

The undergrowth crashed as two sets of legs came into view, and then the weight was dragged off of her.  She quickly rose to her hands and knees, sucking in air. A hand settled on her shoulder, and she looked up to see Jharon there, his eyes deep wells of concern.  She pushed back his hand and nodded, letting him know she was alright. Bruised and dirty, but alright. Then she turned around to see Alistair standing over Hendyr, sword in hand.

“Do it!  Do it you knife-ear fucker!  Do it and the whole village will know you murdered a good man for an _elf_ ,” Hendyr spat.  Caitwyn stood, circling around so that Alistair could see her.  Jharon took up a position opposite her, looming over the downed man, his hammer held at the ready.  She could see blood glistening on the end of it, and she wondered what had been done for her sake.

“I’m alright, Alistair, we’re both just fine,” she assured him, and his eyes tracked to her.  His hazel eyes were wild, panicked, and there was a righteous anger in his clenched jaw. It took him a moment to see her and understand what he was seeing.  Her, a bit worse for ware, but alive. His hand tightened on the grip of his sword, the Warden’s sword they had secreted away in the house. In the dark green light that filtered through the leaves of the trees, it glinted dangerously, the runes set into it flickering and almost alive.

His knuckles white, Alistair glared down at Hendyr sprawled on the ground, but the farmer’s eyes still blazed.  Caitwyn knew eyes like that, the eyes of a man who had turned himself inside out with hate and found only bitter bile inside his heart.  There was nothing in Hendyr that concerned her anymore. Instead, she watched Alistair. A gentle man who happened to be a warrior, he was trained to fight but had only fought with real anger but once.  At the Landsmeet when he dueled Loghain, when his hazel eyes had darkened with rage, and his jaw rigid with a barely choked snarl for all he had lost at Ostagar.

Now under the branches of the trees, that same rage filled his face and she did not know if she would witness another execution.  He had it in him to kill in cold blood, but then so did she. The question was would he do it again, and for once Caitwyn could not see the choice that Alistair would make.  

She didn’t think even he knew.

“Too weak to kill me,” Hendyr taunted.  The tension in Alistair snapped and he surged forward.  Hendyr grinned in triumph, as though dying would be a twisted victory, but Alistair stabbed his sword into the ground beside the man and grabbed the man by his shirt.

“You’re not worth killing,” Alistair ground out.  He hauled Hendyr up and with a swift movement slammed the man head-first into a tree.  The blow knocked the farmer unconscious, and his body went limp. Alistair let the man drop to the ground and like a spell had been broken, Alistair’s shoulders dropped, and the muscles of his jaw no longer jumped with tension.

“I suppose we can’t leave him here for the wolves and bears?” Jharon asked, looking down at the still form, his face set in hard, angry lines.  Alistair glanced to her, a silent question hanging between them. What did _she_ want?

What _did_ she want?

To be left alone, mostly.  To have her family with her, to love those she loved in peace.  She did not need more blood to her name, more lives lost. More, she did not think Hendyr’s son would thank him for such a final solution to his problems.  What right did she have anymore? None, was the answer, if she ever had it in the first place.

She shook her head, and Alistair had his answer.  He huffed, not disagreeing with her decision, though he might want to do something else.  There was also his position in the village to consider. How would it be received if he had killed someone?  Some might think it justice, some might think it going too far, taking too much authority onto himself. They had fought hard to find a place such as this, and she would not risk it, just for the sake of vengeance.

That wasn’t who she was anymore.

“Let’s go home,” she said, covering his hands with her own.  His head fell forward onto his chest. Behind them, Jharon hefted the still unconscious Hendyr over his shoulder and began walking out of the forest.  He was out of sight soon, the dense trees blocking him from view, and they were alone. Tears welled in Alistair’s eyes, falling from his cheeks onto their clasped hands, and he enfolded her in his arms, pressing his face into her hair.  She blinked, trying to clear her vision even as it swam with unshed tears of her own, knowing how close they had both been to losing all they had built, and the future that grew within her. There was nothing to say, nothing that needed to be said, and for a moment they held each other under the tall trees, thick with spring green leaves.

Birds started to sing.


	17. Past the Reach of Striving

“Strong heartbeat, no sign of bleeding,” Mother Ostryd listed dryly.  Her sharp features barely softened while she and Lunete examined Caitwyn.  Alistair and Kieran and Papa waited outside the little mayor’s house, anxious to know how she fared.

“You keep an eye on things now, when you make water.  Check for blood, maybe put a cloth down like with your monthlies, just to be sure,” Lunete suggested.  Caitwyn nodded. It was sound advice. Under the branches of the trees in the forest with the birds singing, Caitwyn had thought she could let it go, could go back to how she had been before.  Mere hours ago she had been elated at the small life inside of her, as if she were a firebug in truth rather than it being Papa’s nickname for her. Instead, an old chill had crept into her while she had fought for her child’s life in the dirt, and she was adrift on a cold current that had dragged her under the waves and held her fast.

When she remained silent a touch too long, Lunete coughed politely.

“Oh, right, yes.  I’ll do that.” Caitwyn felt like she was speaking from a great distance, her voice abstracted even to her own ears, but she couldn’t find her way back.  Absently, her hand ran over her belly as if of its own volition and her eyes were unable to focus. The cozy, doily filled room lacked definable edges and color had drained from the world.

“Do you want to stay here for a few days?  Give folks time to help clean up your home—”

“No.”  The word was hard and final, and she stood from the over-stuffed couch as quickly as she could.  Other people were in her home, trying to set right what had gone wrong. They might scrub out the blood from the wooden floor boards or replace the trampled herbs in her garden, but she would remember the sight.

“Good.  Make the house yours again,” Mother Ostryd said, a vicious note of approval in her words.  Caitwyn was still in her torn and tattered dress, and blood still in her hair, on her hands.  It was like she was wearing armor again, the treated leathers and thin silverite plates that covered her chest and legs now encasing her heart, the armor she had stowed away and wanted to forget.

There was no forgetting any of it.

Lunete bustled behind her, ready to lend a supporting hand, but Caitwyn could walk on her own.  She’d run on her own not long ago. She could walk. Alistair saw her first. His eyes had been trained on the front door like a hunting hound’s, waiting for her.  Papa and Kieran turned to regard her at the sound of the door opening, and in a blink of an eye she was showered with anxious affection.

“Is the baby alright?”

“How are you, firebug?”

“ _Mamae_ , I’m sorry.”

“That’s enough out of all of you.”  Mother Ostryd’s voice was even, but they all responded like a whip had been cracked over their heads.  The older woman’s piercing blue eyes grounded the men to where they stood. “She needs peace and quiet.  The babe is well, and she knows what to look for. I’ll not thank any of you if you make her anxious. Understood?”

There was a subdued chorus of “Yes, Revered Mother,” that almost made Caitwyn crack a smile.  Alistair’s reaction in particular nearly got her. His freckled cheeks were a blazing red, but his brows were drawn down with a touch of bewildered confusion at reacting like he was still a young man in the monastery.  Kieran, however, wormed his way in underneath Cait’s arm, and the wall around her melted a little. Her son needed her; he needed to know that he hadn’t abandoned her even if it had been her order that had sent him away.  She pressed her lips to his temple and ruffled his fine, black hair with the fingers of one hand.

“You’ve nothing to be sorry for, _lethallin_ ,” she whispered.  Her son shivered in spite of the warmth of the early evening, and the chill in her blood receded.

“Right, we’ll be on our best behavior,” Alistair promised, breaking into the quiet moment.  Caitwyn closed her eyes tight, and tried to will herself to not see the sword that still hung on his hip, but the griffins gleamed in the waning light of the sun.

The whole village knew now who they were, or who they had been.  There was no unseeing the sword or the connection her last name provided.  Perhaps the only ones who didn’t know were Hendyr and his friends currently locked in the old, disused Chantry cellar.  A whole village could not keep quiet about hosting the Warden-Commander of Ferelden or two of the Heroes of the Fifth Blight.  Word would get out.

She had been foolish, stupid, to use her real name.  But it was her name, and she had not wanted to give up.  And now the Wardens would know the location of the man who had escaped their grasp.  Anora would know, and worse she would know that two children of Theirin blood lived in a defenseless village.

Ice shot through her again, cold and jagged, and she allowed Alistair to shepherd her home.  She wished for blinders, like a horse, so she couldn’t see the way the villagers—people who had been her friends and thought her little more than a somewhat reclusive huntress—now stopped and dipped their heads respectfully as she passed by, or tugged at their forelocks with an awed _Warden Tabris_.  A life she’d thought behind her.  A mask she’d worn and tried to shatter with broken oaths.  But it came back to her too easily: the cool, evaluative face, the barest arch of her brow, the way her shoulders squared and her stride lengthened just a touch.  A whole village that knew, or thought they knew, who she was.

For a brief period of time she had been just _Caitwyn_ again, even more simply _Cait._  It had not been meant to last.

They reached the house, her thoughts occupying her so she barely noticed how the door had been reset, trap and all.  A trap that had not been enough to stop anything. Inside the house, everything had been set back to rights, but she could see the little things that were different.  A patch of bleached floor, where the blood had been cleaned away but the wood not yet restained. The rugs laid flat again, but ever so slightly off, and her pots and pans out of order.  Not the same. Never the same.

Like how the Alienage hadn’t been the same.

Her mind had fogged over, unable to digest all the threats that sprung up around her.  She saw them everywhere. They would come up from Gwaren, or stalk her through the forest, men in uniform could row boats right to the beach.  She saw them coming in the shadows and in the darkness behind her eyes. They would come for her, for Alistair. For her children.

She didn’t want to think like this, but she couldn’t _stop_.

Somehow, she was in their bed staring up into the darkness of their ceiling.  Alistair clung to her, and normally she would have nested into his arms and taken comfort in the warmth of him.  Now she only felt cold, unable to find her way to him.

“Cait, talk to me, please,” he pleaded, long fingers stroking the hair away from her face.  She licked her lips to speak, to say something, anything other than to remain silent. She’d done this before, she could do it again.  But it was like a late spring frost had come over her, freezing the green shoots of her life.

“I’ll protect you, I promise.  I promised, didn’t I?” His voice dipped up and down, betraying his desperate uncertainty, but she didn’t think he was talking to her anymore.  He was trying to convince himself he’d done the right thing. The birds had sung that day, and they had cried as they held each other in the forest, but as the reality of what happened continue to sink into both of them, the more they fractured.  “I promise, no one is going to hurt you ever again. No one.”

She remained silent, the only sounds their breathing.  How long they lay awake next to each other, she did not know.  She only knew it was a promise even he couldn’t keep.

 

* * *

 

 

The magistrate was due from Gwaren today.

Two weeks of wrangling back and forth with the city’s mayor, two weeks of keeping those, those, cowards, those _shems_ confined in the Chantry cellar, and it was about to be over.  Lunete had gone down herself to insist that a magistrate come up, which of course had done the trick.  Saying “no” to Lunete Neam was, Alistair thought, likely entirely impossible. She had offered to judge them, then and there in the Chantry, with Cait in his arms, still covered in dirt and detritus from the forest, her dress torn and face scratched.  Hendyr’s blood on her hands, in her hair.

He had wanted them dead.  Dead and gone and no hope of ever coming back to hurt his family, but he had abstained.  Instead, he had asked for justice, not what he wanted.

It would not have been the first execution he’d carried out, and Maker help him for having not done it.  He didn’t know if it made him weak or not, to have let the man live, but he had not been able to shake the feeling that it meant he had failed Caitwyn and their baby.  Failed them in the worst way, and it gnawed at him, the niggling notion that he wasn’t enough, that he hadn’t been strong enough, fast enough, smart enough—that he had never been enough.  Not enough to be a partner to Cait, a father to to their children. He wouldn’t fail them, not ever again. Cait and the children would be _safe_.

He hadn’t allowed her to be alone since.  It chafed at her, he knew, but how else could he be sure?  It didn’t help that she’d barely spoken to him since that day.  She was back behind her walls, hiding from the quiet, awed respect of the villagers.  Trying to hide from whatever horrors her mind conjured up. She didn’t say anything, but he knew her too well to not see the tightness of her lips, or the slight furrow of her brow.  It was the face she made when she was looking for a way out.

Was she looking for a way out of being with him?  Away from the man who had let her and her children down?  All he wanted was to be enough for her. Couldn’t she see that?

Pushing his agitated thoughts away, Alistair stood ready at the southern entrance to the village, doing his best to look official.  Cait and Kieran were with Lunete and Cyrion, and another worry niggled at him: Kieran. He had stuck close to Cait, seeking reassurance from her about following her order to run, and then later by helping Hendyr’s son, once bully now turned wounded boy.  Alistair had come home one night to find Kieran curled up in Cait’s arms fast asleep, the echo of that lonely boy he had met in Skyhold. A few times he had tried to get Kieran to train, but his son had merely shook his head and said he didn’t feel like it anymore.

Alistair didn’t know what to do.  Silence filled the house, a silence that stretched and strained, making it hard to talk, to want to talk at all.

Then his eyes caught movement on the hill to the south, a team of horses and likely a carriage behind it.  Magistrates did not travel without comfort, it seemed. Behind the carriage rode two armored guardsmen, and they dismounted with ease.  By their bored, glazed over expressions, they found the small village lacking when compared to Gwaren. Feeling a surge of proprietary pride in a village he’d lived in for barely a year, Alistair maintained his upright bearing, not ducking his head or offering deference when the driver held up the horses just before the village wall.

“My lord,” Alistair began, but then the door slammed open and a large, bluff man with a white, walrus-like mustache emerged.  Catching his attention, Alistair gestured toward the village. “This way if you please.”

At least this part of the nightmare would be over soon enough.  Then maybe he could figure out how to repair the cracks this strain had etched into his family.

 

* * *

 

 

Caitwyn let her current knitting failure fall limp in her hands.  It was a stupid notion, that she should knit things for her baby, and even more frustrating that she couldn’t manage to knit so much as a scarf properly.  It was maddening. She could assemble and disassemble traps, _complicated_ traps by feel alone, pick locks that dwarven artificers swore up and down were unpickable.  But she couldn’t knit.

Her current mood wasn’t helping matters any.

Not that she was _in a mood_ .  No.  She had perfectly reasonable grounds to be upset.  The villagers knew who she was now. No, who she _had_ been.  She was not Warden-Commander Tabris anymore.  She didn’t want to be. Bridges burned, ashes scattered, but that would not mean the Wardens would necessarily leave her alone if they found out where they were.  Nor would Anora. Perhaps had the queen remarried and had a child, their working relationship would not have soured so badly. The last time she had been in Denerim had not been terribly welcoming.

Then there was Alistair.  Alistair and his insistence on coddling her, on wrapping her in cotton.  All she wanted was to have a quiet life with him and their family. Not this knife-edge existence they were suddenly trapped in.  Didn’t he understand that?

Kicking off the blankets that she had draped over her to ward off the evening chill, she snatched up the newest mess of yarn and contemplated throwing it in the fire.  Papa sat up, moving to stop her, but she turned her back to him and unraveled what should have been a little hat into nothing, still unable to see anything go to waste.  She contemplated the yarn draped over her fingers, how easily it all came apart.

She had thought they had been through too much together to be pushed to the breaking point by ignorant village men.  Following down the thread of events, she tried to find the place where it had all turned sour. Between leaving the forest and arriving back in the village, when she had let her fears sink cold claws into her heart and not said a thing.

How did she take back words she had never said?

“Cait, firebug,” her father said gently, setting down his book and taking the yarn from her hands.  “Come on now, it’s late, let it go. Do you want to read something?”

“Not particularly Papa,” she said, then glanced at the door to Kieran’s room.  His room where he spent more and more of his time when he wasn’t practically glued to her side.  It was like the aftermath of the Harvest Festival all over again, Kieran withdrawing when he got hurt just like she did.  “But I should check to make sure Kieran is alright.”

She did not see her father’s sympathetic frown as she packed her knitting things away.  Alistair was likely still at the Chantry. She had been called to testify, and thankfully she had only been listed as _Caitwyn Tabris_ not given her full title.  Lunete and Mother Ostryd seemed to have no interest in who they had been before coming to this village, but Caitwyn could not escape the lingering gazes, the respectful dips of the head, men and women alike looking at her as if she had somehow saved them personally.

All she had wanted out of that dark time was to survive.  That the rest of Ferelden had mostly survived as well was due to her dogged determination to not let any possible ally go.  She had wanted as much support as she could possibly muster, all of it driven by a wild deep-down panic that had been a constant companion for a full year of her life.

Regardless, she had laid out her version of Hendyr’s attack for the magistrate, listened to Kieran give his, and then promptly left.  They had not dared to hold her there, and Alistair had almost walked out as well until Papa followed her out the Chantry and escorted her home.  She could not blame her father, but still it got under her skin, the attention and the treatment. Like she was fragile, like she could break, should break.

One person, however, still saw her as strong, still needed her to be strong, but she ached at the cost of it.

“Kieran,” she called, wrapping her knuckles on his door.  “You alright? All ready for lessons tomorrow?” She heard a heavy thump as he set something down, and then he opened the door a crack, blocking her from seeing any further into his room.

“I’m fine.  Gonna sleep soon, I promise,” he said, and Cait held the palm of her hand flat to the door, keeping it braced open.  Catching Kieran’s eyes, she tried to bring him out of himself, but she knew better than most how hard that was to do.  Especially when that person didn’t want to see beyond what was in their own mind.

The prisons people made for themselves were the worst ones, she thought, and a sliver of doubt shot through her.  Was she falling into the same trap?

“Promise, _Mamae_ ,” Kieran reiterated, and Cait leaned forward to kiss his forehead.  He let her, and she let him go to disappear back into his room. For once, his father was not here to wish him good night.  It was the magistrate that was keeping him late, she reasoned. The magistrate and the trial, not any dragging feet on his part.  He wouldn’t do that to Kieran.

But it nagged at her mind, the argument they were in the middle of.  It wasn’t even a proper argument, more like a collection of frustrations and fears, all jumbled up and knotted together, so tangled she couldn’t find a way to unravel it.

 

* * *

 

 

Alistair gently shut the door behind him, shucking out of his coat and undoing his belted scabbard.  It was late, but Cyrion was still awake. Awake and cleaning, focusing on setting to right what he could.  Some things never changed, and though Cait’s family insisted she was thoroughly her mother’s daughter, there was no getting around the fact that she was more like Cyrion than most people realized.

Alistair inclined his head, a silent greeting, and Cyrion merely glanced at the couch where Caitwyn curled up under a blanket, eyes closed and apparently asleep.  The sight of her stopped his heart. Though her hair was in a braid, a few locks always escaped and curled along the lines of her cheek and neck. Her lips were just parted, and her arms hugged around her belly, like she was holding their baby already.

This was asinine, he told himself.  He should just throw himself at her feet and apologize and do whatever it took to bring her out of herself, and then they could go back to normal.  Quietly, Cyrion set down his cleaning and moved past Alistair, giving him a slight smile. If anyone knew what it was to love a stubborn woman, it was Cyrion, and Alistair was grateful for the encouraging pat on the arm that Caitwyn’s father gave him on his way out the door.

He could put a stop to this freezing silence, and then they wouldn’t be having this damned protracted _discussion_ anymore.

Kneeling in front of her he gently brushed a curl off her cheek, and her eyes fluttered open.  Oh Maker, those eyes, with a light all their own in the darkness, and he smiled. Sleepily she leaned into his touch, making that happy little sound she made sometimes, almost like a cat.

“Hey, were you trying to wait up for me?” he asked, voice low, unable to help the smile that curved his lips.

“Trying and failing, as it turns out,” she grumped, though she didn’t pull away.  He thought that maybe he wouldn’t even have to apologize. If he played his cards right, they could skip all those awkward steps and go right back to how things should have always been.

“Well, let’s get to bed, hm?”  Pressing a kiss to her lips, he was gratified that she leaned into it.  Then he got his arms underneath her and lifted her up. She jerked away from him so fast he nearly dropped her.  As it was, she gathered the blanket tightly around herself and fixed him with an icy glare.

“No, no it’s not that easy, it can’t be.”  She sounded almost desperate, and her fingers turned white as she clutched at the blanket.  “We could be in serious danger, Alistair.”

“You weren’t upset after I _got that bastard off of you_ ,” he challenged though he tried to keep his voice down.  How had he ever thought of just giving in? He knew, because he had before.  Given in to her stubborn view of the world or spent ages coaxing her down, but not this time.  Maker damn it, but how many times would she do this? Well, he wouldn’t give in or give over this time.  He wouldn’t. Not when it came to her, not when it came to their child.

“You didn’t need a _Warden’s_ sword to do that,” she countered in clipped, quick tones, the lilt of Denerim’s Alienage in full force now.  His hands gripped the cushions of the couch, knuckles going white, and he wanted to throw something. He was _trying_ , trying to think about their safety so she could _let go_ , but she wouldn’t.  She had to hold on.

“You and your obsession with secrecy, Maker’s breath!  No one said a _thing_ , Cait.  This whole village, they’d march into the sea if you asked it of them, but all you can see are the threats.  Those threats are only in your head, Cait,” he pleaded. Her eyes slid away from his, looking into the fire, and he could see the marks of worry and stress on her, tight lips and shadowed eyes.  They were on him, too, he knew.

“Those threats are only in _my_ head?” she hissed, spearing him with eyes suddenly as sharp as knives.  “What about you insisting, no _demanding_ I have a bloody escort?  Like I’m some fragile doll?”  Her words bit, and he couldn’t hold it in anymore.  She was all about security, about blending in, but at the same time didn’t even seem to acknowledge how close she and their child had come to death.  Safety on _her_ terms, no one else’s.  He’d never be what she wanted on that score, but that didn’t mean he was wrong.

“It’s not just about you, not anymore!”  His voice broke from him, louder than he intended.  He stood over her, hoping, praying, she’d understand.  Then her lips curled back in a snarl and she stepped away from him.

“Don’t, don’t you _dare_ ,” she threatened through clenched teeth.

Then the door to Kieran’s room slammed open, and they both turned to see their son, fully dressed, dash out of the house.  They stared after him for a moment, mouths hanging open. They’d been shouting. Shouting, and Kieran had heard it. Alistair turned to Cait, who stared through the open door, hand held to her mouth and regret in her eyes.

“Oh Maker, what did he hear?” she breathed.

“Too much.  Look can we just—” he started to say, but she nodded.

“Him first, I agree,” she said.

It was the first time they had agreed on anything in two weeks.

 

* * *

 

 

Kieran ran down to the beach under the starry sky, the sand and rocks shifting under his feet until he slid to a stop just before the tide line.  The cool spring night chilled him through his thin shirt, and the salt spray from the crashing waves dampened his hastily pulled on breaches. He didn’t want to think about anything right now, but he couldn’t stop hearing them, how they had been so angry at each other through the door of his room.  There was no getting away from the anger and the fear that laid over everything like a thick fog, smothering out the warm family he had known. Worse, the aching fear in his own chest and belly continued to coil and twist and clench, and he didn’t know how to say what he felt into the cold silence of the house.

“Don’t suppose you’d mind a bit of company?” Da asked, his voice carrying through the night.  Kieran shrugged, curling his shoulders forward. He heard Da’s feet crunching on the rocks behind him, and then a slight shift, which meant _Mamae_ was making noise on purpose.  She patted his back, and he glanced at her, her bright eyes shining in the dark like green stars.   

“You have something on your mind, _lethallin_?” she asked softly.  She used that word, the words of the elves, when she put her heart into her voice.  He loved it, those words that were just for him. Now it sounded false, like a bell that shouldn’t have rung.

“You know I do,” he said sharply, frowning at her.  Normally, _Mamae_ was someone he could talk to, someone who he could rely on to see the world with clear eyes, but not right now.  Nothing was clear right now.

“Hey, come on now, we’re worried about you.  You’ve gone all quiet again, and you haven’t been drawing or training at all.”  Da ruffled his hair, but he jerked away. It made Da flinch, and a thread of anxious regret wound in his chest.  He quashed it. Or tried to. His stomach sinking, he shrugged, looking down at the starlit water lapping at the shore.

“I don’t want to train anymore,” he told them, pulling away from _Mamae_ , too.  It was mean and cruel to wrench away from her.  He knew it would hurt her to not try to help him.  He knew he should let her help. But it was like the meanness had sunk into everything, and he didn’t know how to not be mean.

“Why not?” Da asked gently, but the warmth in his tone only confused Kieran more.  His hands balled into fists, nails biting into his palms.

“I just don’t, alright?!” he exclaimed.  His whole back was tense, rigid as iron, and his arms shook.

“Kieran, son, I’m not saying that you have to, it’s just, I— _we_ are worried about you, that’s all.”  Da kept his voice soft, trying to use reason, but it didn’t make sense.  They had been so happy, before the attack, and then something had cracked between them.  How could they be like normal now and not at other times?

“You say you’re worried, but then why are you fighting like this?” he asked, gaze shifting between them, some of the tension leaving his shoulders.  The question he hadn’t wanted to ask, but had asked all the same. That caught them, and they both hung their heads, like they were the ones in trouble.  Da sighed, a sound that was nearly lost in the sound of the tide, but Kieran heard it. Then _Mamae_ patted his back, and he didn’t pull away.

“We aren’t fighting,” Da said quickly.  Kieran and Caitwyn shot Alistair nearly identical expressions of disbelief, and he threw his hands up in surrender.  “Alright, we’re fighting, and I hate that we’re fighting, but it’s nothing to do with you, Kieran.”

“Your da and I… Kieran, whatever is between us isn’t as important as you right now.”   _Mamae_ drew his attention back to her, and she said it with such assurance that he believed _that_ at least.  “I know it can be hard to talk about what’s going on in your own head sometimes.  The words don’t always come out right, do they?”

“No.  No, they don’t.”  Drawings, pictures, that he could do.  But ever since the old god dreams had stopped, he hadn’t drawn dark things.  He had drawn silly things, beautiful things, quiet, happy things. Him and his friends on made up adventures, the birds in spring, the house, and once, a picture of Mother as he remembered her.  He didn’t think it was that good, and he hadn’t shown it to anyone yet, but he had kept it. To have it.

Words were harder, and he didn’t know how to say some of the things he felt sometimes.  It had been getting easier, but it had gotten knotted and tangled again. Everything sat in his chest like some lump, unmoving and unmovable.

“You don’t have to tell us now, but we don’t want you to think you can’t tell us at all,” Da said, and Kieran nodded, leaning into his father.  By reflex, Da’s arms wrapped around him, his hand holding Kieran’s head to his chest.

“I _know_ I can.  It’s just… hard,” he said, voice little and lame in his own ears.   _Mamae_ touched Da lightly on the arm, tilting her head away from the water.  Instead of going back to the house, however, Da stopped where the long grass started to grow and sat down.  Kieran settled down next to him, and then _Mamae_ joined them, pulling Kieran into her arms. He curled up, tucking his head under her chin, and it was a little uncomfortable because he was getting taller, but still somehow comfortable at the same time.

“Hmm, you’re nearly as tall as I am, _da’len_.  Won’t be able to do this for too much longer,” she mused, voice barely above a whisper.  Her fingers stroked his hair, and he had to resist the urge to close his eyes and try to sleep.

“Yeah,” Kieran agreed, letting his mind drift.  He was tired, and looking out at the star-lit ocean he could just imagine that it went on forever, the stars and their reflections dancing across all of eternity.  Da rubbed his back, and for the first time since the attack, it was like Kieran was home again.

Into the silence of the night, he spoke.

“I hit Gavin, when I found him in the village.  He had blood on his hands. I thought it was yours, _Mamae_ , and it felt like my whole head on fire.  I didn’t think, I just wanted to hurt him. And what if, what if I’d had my sword or a stick or something?  What if I _had_ hurt him?” Kieran asked, the words tumbling forth, gaining momentum as he spoke.  It scared him, what he had almost done. Scared him so much. At the time, he hadn’t thought about it, but the more he did think about it, the more it scared him.

“But you didn’t hurt him.  I’m so proud of you for what you did, helping someone who hurt you.  That’s not easy,” _Mamae_ said, but Kieran shook his head.  Maybe he didn’t say it right, didn’t explain properly.

“That’s not the point!  What if, what if all that training, it _made me_ angrier?  What if I only learned all that and I don’t actually help anyone?  What if all its good for is hurting?” he wailed, the fear breaking out of him.  What if in his desire to protect, he became someone mean? Like in Val Royeaux. He’d heard about the Chevaliers.  What they did. It was all written down, glorious charges against people who couldn’t possibly withstand the might bearing down on them.  Would he become like that?

“Kieran, look at me, please,” Da said, taking Kieran by the shoulders and turning him out of _Mamae_ ’s arms.  “Fire in your head?  That’s not the training, you get that from me.  That’s exactly how I felt when I was looking for _Mamae_ .  But the training?  The training helps you deal with that, when you need to think clearly.  If I didn’t have my training there’d be some very dead men in the village right now.  I’m not proud of that, but I’m telling you so you understand. Learning to fight doesn’t make you a bad person.  It’s how you choose to fight that can, and you chose to be kind, Kieran. That was _your_ choice, and don’t let anyone take that away from you, not even your own doubts, alright?  Do you understand?”

Kieran nodded and flung his arms around his father’s neck.  He wasn’t a bad person. He hadn’t done anything wrong, he wasn’t someone who was mean and cruel inside.  If he was like Da, that had to be true, because Da was a good man. Mother had said so, and everything, _everything_ Kieran had seen had fit into that.

“Yeah, I do,” he said, shutting his eyes tight, hoping that this meant it was really all over.  They could go back to normal now.

 

* * *

 

 

Caitwyn played with the end of her braid, eyes gazing up at the ceiling of the bedroom she shared with Alistair.  Her heart ached to know that Kieran had been suffering those questions all alone inside his head, and she had been too distracted by her own fear and pain to see it.  She hadn’t been much of a mother lately, and that ratcheted up her anger another degree.

Anger at herself.

She had been paralyzed with fear since that moment she’d come into her home and seen those men, those _shems_ , there.  Like they had a right.  They had _no right_.  And that paralyzing fear had touched off a cold anger in her chest, so cold it burned away everything else.  But she had pushed the anger down, down and into the dark, because it had been necessary for her survival. She had been so focused on surviving since that moment, had she ever stopped?

Hendyr had held her down, down in the dirt, and she could remember another time, held down, dirt in her hair, broken glass in the alley, then blood on her hands.  Other men had come into her home, into her people’s place and _taken_.  Taken what was not theirs.  She had thought herself past being hung and drawn on those moments, on her own nightmares, but here she was again, twisted up in her own memories all over again.

Alistair slid into bed, the mattress moving under his weight, and she turned to him under the blankets, fewer as the baby made her sleep warm.  Toward him, not away. He reached for her, encouraged by seeing her, not the walls she had tried to hide behind again. She wiggled closer, her hands pressed to his chest, fingers curling into the fine hairs there as they held each other in the dark of their room.  The barest starlight filtered in through the shutters, but it was enough for them both to see by.

“I’m sorry,” he whispered, voice low in her ears.  Low and earnest and true. “I know you hate being treated like you’re fragile, but I couldn’t help myself.  I haven’t been able to think straight at all. It’s just I was scared, so scared I was going to lose you both.  I thought I’d _failed_ , Cait.  Failed you and the baby.  I don’t know, don’t know if I could—and I just kept _seeing—_ ”

“I know,” she said, interrupting him, but not harshly.  Gently, soothingly, stilling the words that went too quickly, driven by a heart stopping terror of losing her, losing their child.  “I know. I was scared too, and angry. Angry that - that it happened again. That I couldn’t stop it, that it felt I was back in Denerim all over again.  I’ve been so scared and angry since I saw those bloody _shems_ in our house, and it’s all come out on you.  I’m sorry.”

“Oh Cait, I should’ve known—” he said at the same time she spoke, “It wasn’t fair of me—”  A puff of laughter escaped them both, their words mingling in the dark, like when they were young.  Young and nervous and so scared of hurting each other. They had managed to hurt each other anyway, but she thought perhaps they had been able to avoid leaving scars, still able to heal the hurt they had caused.

“I love, you,” she told him, burrowing into his arms, nuzzling against his chest.  Holding her to him, his hands stroked her back through her thin nightshirt, his lips brushing her cheek, her ear, making her eyes flutter closed and a sigh escape her lips.

“I love you.”  His voice was strident, earnest, his heart laid bare, and she felt it in the rumble of his chest, in the warmth held between them in the comforting darkness.  Between one breath and the next, she let it go, the anger and fear that had clawed at her chest and lashed out at him. Tilting her head up, she captured his lips with her own, pressing her body closer, hearts beating fast in the dark.

 

* * *

 

 

Hendyr and his fellows had been carted off yesterday.  Alistair thought it not a moment too soon. The trial had been over quickly, but since there had been no murder the men had been sentenced to a navy work gang instead of the gallows.  They’d arrive in Gwaren only to be summarily tossed on a boat to Denerim. Or, more precisely, the naval shipyards just to the south of the city. The Queen was in an army building mood, especially after the past two years, and it was likely Ferelden had not seen the last of trouble.

All Alistair hoped was that he and Cait and their family were well out of it now.

With all the excitement over, Alistair had returned to his rounds, but there were two people he wanted to check on, people who had been lost in the shuffle of all that had occured.  Following the dirt track between the fields, green shoots just starting to emerge from the straight furrows of dirt, Alistair walked through the farmland that occupied the western edge of the village.  The occasional farmhouse stood isolated by fields and pastureland, and more than a few cows and sheep eyed him dully as he passed by. He wasn’t distributing hay, so he wasn’t that interesting. Though when he caught whiff of a pig pen, he picked up his pace a bit.

Pigs.  Good eating, but Maker did they stink.

The sun was high in the sky, making the late Bloomingtide day feel more like the middle of summer, and he could hear the trickle of a nearby creek wending through the ditches at the side of the road.  He took the left fork of the track when he came to a divide, heading away from some of the more well-kept fields and homes, and closer to the forest. Hendyr’s land had been carved out of the tree line by his father, making it rougher land to work.  Hard land, hard people, so said Kennard. Alistair would have to take the man at his word, seeing how little he knew about farming.

Insects buzzed lazily, and the Alrect home came into clearer view.  It had clearly suffered a hard winter, the chinking patchy and flaking off, two of the windows boarded up, and there were no green shoots in the fields.  Instead, a few bony cows meandered wherever they wanted and lipped at whatever was growing around them.

How had anyone allowed it to get this bad?  Shouldn’t the villagers look after each other a bit?  The boy, Gavin, had said Hendyr had hit his wife. Didn’t she have friends?  Other women who would notice and do something?

But that wasn’t fair.  It was _his_ job to notice, and he hadn’t.  Alistair trotted up the stairs and stood on the porch that wrapped around the whole front of the house, shaded from the sun by a well-constructed, if old, roof.  He knocked on the door, but there was no answer. They could be gone, but he didn’t think so. Someone would have noticed _that_ , and then Lunete would have known as a matter of course.

“Hello?  It’s Alistair, the, uh, sheriff?” he called out, his title sounding strange coming out of his own mouth.  Besides, they knew who he was. Everyone knew. The door opened a crack, and a sullen boy glared at him through it.  His face was too thin and pinched, like he hadn’t been getting enough to eat, and his hair was dirty and greasy.

“Know who you are.  What do you want?” Gavin asked, then his eyes narrowed.  “We own this land, me and my mum. Can’t take it from us.”

“Whoa, no one said anything about you not being on this land.  The magistrate granted it to you, and no one’s trying to take it away.”  Alistair tried for a mollifying tone and held his hands out in front of him, demonstrating that they were empty.  But the boy’s eyes went straight to the sword at Alistair’s hip. The plain sword, not the Warden’s sword. That was safely away locked again, with Cait’s daggers and her warbow.  Things too precious to leave behind, but once more kept out of sight. Perhaps one day truly out of mind.

“Then what _do_ you want?” the boy asked, voice rising as he flung the door open.  He advanced on Alistair, all wild fire and green-sick fear. “Come to gloat?  I never wanted anyone _hurt_ , not like that.  And I wanted my mum safe, but you!  You got my Da sent away, and what are we gonna do now?  I can’t farm like him! It took two of us to run this land, and my mum’s not strong enough.  We’re gonna die anyway!”

“Hey!  That’s enough,” Alistair said sharply, using his full height to tower over the boy.  Not expecting that, Gavin shrank away, and Alistair sighed with guilty frustration. His father had taken to beating him over the winter, of course he’d be afraid.  Alistair took a step back, giving the boy his space. In a more even tone he said, “Gavin, I came by to see if there’s anything you need. You and your mother.”

“Don’t want your pity.”  Gavin spat the words, his face twisted by youthful, stubborn pride for a moment before his shoulders hunched forward.  The fire burned out of him quickly, leaving only a gutted figure behind with dark shadows around his eyes. “I just don’t know what to do.  I know what my da would’ve done. But—”

“I know,” Alistair said into the pause.  “I know what’s it like to have a… complicated relationship with your father.  I never knew mine, not until just before he died, and well. It wasn’t what I’d hoped for.  But neither of us have to be our fathers, Gavin. We are our own people, and we decide for ourselves who we want to be.  You’ve got a choice before you now, lad, about who you become. That’s your decision. Not your father’s, not mine. Just yours.”

Alistair watched as Gavin worked his way through what Alistair had said, his face the picture of indecisive fear.  Being his own man would also mean being responsible for his choices, for all his future actions. He had been acquitted of wrongdoing by the magistrate in the attack on Cait.  Cait and Kieran had both insisted that he had been only following his father’s orders, too afraid for himself and his mother to disobey. But after this, if he someone got hurt again there would be no way to avoid responsibility.

Gavin straightened and looked out over the dilapidated farm.  His jaw clenched in thought, then he nodded once as if he had decided everything in that moment.  It was a fast change, but then, out here, in these little villages, people had to be ready to move with the weather and disaster.  Alistair supposed this kind of disaster was no different, not really.

“Thank you, ser,” Gavin said stiffly, as if he wasn’t sure if he liked calling Alistair that, but doing so regardless.  “We’ll go to Gwaren. My mum has a sister there. I can find work on the docks. It’ll be hard, but she won’t want for anything.  Not like here.” The boy held out his hand, and Alistair did not hesitate to clasp forearms with the lad.

“Maker watch over you, Gavin, you and your mother,” Alistair said, meaning every word of it.  Because Cait had been right. He was only a boy still, for all that he had a man’s burden on his shoulders now.  But more importantly, Alistair could leave the Alrect farm knowing he’d done something right that day, and that something good had come out of this whole mess.

A boy got a second chance at having a life of his own.  Alistair knew what that was worth.

 

 

* * *

 

 

“Alistair, what are you doing?” Caitwyn asked, eyes crinkling with bewildered amusement as he placed another failed attempt at a knitted hat on his head.  She had thought that trying to knit proper, full sized clothes might be easier instead of smaller baby clothes. As Bloomingtide turned into Justinian, however, she had only produced more failures.  Levering herself of the couch with a grunt, she tried to snatch at the several half-finished scarves that hung around his neck.

“I thought that would be perfectly obvious,” he replied airily, primly, dancing just out of her reach, a smug grin plastered on his face.  She was a good seven months along now, and at her stature the extra weight turned a once cat-like grace into a lumbering stride more suited to a bear.  Kieran raised his head from where he sat at the table, his books and papers covering the dark-stained wood, an indulgent smile on his face as if he were the one tolerating their antics.  For a brief moment Caitwyn considered that maybe this was too silly, but then she caught sight of Alistair’s smug face again and promptly dismissed the notion of giving up.

“Get back here, you ridiculous man!” she cried, moving as quickly as she could around the couch, where he was successfully playing keep away with her failed projects.

“Not until you promise to stop tearing them apart!”  She lowered her head and raised an eyebrow, trying to figure out a way to get to him to get her yarn back at least.  Maybe if she went _over_ the couch?  She leaned forward, testing the idea, but then she thought better of it.

“It’s my yarn!  Now get here,” she ordered, grabbing for him as she rounded the far end of the couch, the dogs safely watching from a cozy spot by the fire.  Even in summer the fire needed to be kept going, to ward off the ocean’s chill that swept over the hillside. But right now she was the furthest thing from cold chasing the love of her life around their home while he wore every knitting failure she had produced.

“And some of us are trying to study!” Kieran cried indignantly.  Alistair, however, had other ideas. He dashed around the table and tossed a scarf into Kieran’s lap.

“Help me!  Quick! She can’t catch both of us at once!” Alistair exclaimed while keeping out of her reach.  Kieran was caught for a moment between his inclination to study and his desire to play, but Caitwyn decided for him by grabbing for the scarf he wore.  A manic grin broke over Kieran’s face as the boy leapt out of his chair and ran around the table as well, keeping to the far side of the room while Alistair was at the other.  Caitwyn knew this tactic but was not fooled. She took one step toward Kieran and then switched track as quickly as possible, grasping a thread of loose yarn on the scarf Alistair wore.  Clamping her hand tight around the thread, she pulled, unravelling a scarf that had been meant for Hetty’s nameday.

It was silly, pure silliness, and Caitwyn knew how much they had both missed this.  Him playing at being the utter fool, her grumbling but meaning exactly none of it, going along with his mad ideas until they both collapsed in a fit of laughter.  Kieran was caught up in the game, too, and it seemed all was once again right with the world.

Then there was a knock at the door.

As if struck by a frost spell, Alistair halted in his flight, and she skidded to a stop, her bulk coming to a rest just behind him.  Easily, he shifted about, and she tucked herself under his arm as they went to answer the door. With a quick motion, Alistair undid the lock, disabling the more serious trap that was now rigged there, and opened the door.

Morrigan stood there, looking the same as ever, her yellow eyes going wide in shock at the sight of them.  Alistair covered in half-knitted hats and scarves, Caitwyn breathless and bright-eyed, hair coming loose from its braid for all the excitement.  Then the corner of Morrigan’s mouth twitched and a smile curved her lips, and one dark eyebrow raised in sardonic amusement.

“It is good you have had such practice looking after children, my friend,” Morrigan drawled, and Caitwyn rolled her eyes.  She was about to reply when Kieran poked his head around the doorframe.

In that instant, Morrigan’s features softened, for once her heart in her eyes.  Kieran launched himself at his mother, and Morrigan hugged him easily, holding him close to her for a moment.  Then she stepped back, her habitual, evaluative expression on her face once again.

“Judging by Caitwyn and Alistair’s surprise it seems, my son, that you neglected to mention that I would be arriving early, after you informed me about all that had occurred,” Morrigan said dryly.  Kieran grimaced, glancing at Cait and Alistair, who only returned Kieran’s guilty expression with bemused smiles.

“Oops.”


	18. Let the World Not Intrude

“Not that I mind having a goat, and I understand she might come in handy for the baby.  But how the bloody hell did she get on the roof, and why do I have to get her down?” Alistair asked.  He peered up at the nanny goat, currently perched on the roof of their home as if she thought it was a perfectly normal place for her to be. 

“Well obviously, I’m not going to get it, and Kieran’s too small still,” Caitwyn explained, ticking the items off on her fingers.  She stood next to Alistair, hair teased by the wind off the ocean, keeping her cool. For the first time in her life, she was too warm.  It had to be the pregnancy, because even her lightest summer dresses felt stifling. 

“What about Morrigan?  She’s got  _ witchy _ powers.  Surely she can handle a goat,” he suggested, rubbing his stubbly chin thoughtfully.  He’d started trying to grow a beard again, in the summer of all times, though it was coming in better than the previous attempt.  Less patchy at least, though she wasn’t sure she liked the mental picture of him with a beard. Still, she supposed it was his face.

“Because Morrigan will certainly agree to using magic to charm a goat,” Caitwyn said dryly, patting his arm in an attempt to be conciliatory.  It had been a surprise, Morrigan arriving earlier than expected, but with the sympathy and respect of the villagers still riding high, the third room of the house had been completed swiftly.  Caitwyn had resigned herself to their knowledge of who she was, but slowly people had begun to reconcile the Hero of Ferelden with the woman they had known this year past. She’d had several promises from her friends that her ‘retirement’ wouldn’t be disturbed.

Morrigan, meanwhile, had slipped into the routine of life in their home without too much of a ripple, though she largely kept close to Cait and Kieran, not interacting too much with the locals.  But having her friend here, and someone who had been through this herself, had soothed all sorts of aimless, nervous flutters Caitwyn had not even been entirely aware of until the moment Morrigan had darkened their door.

“Besides, she and Kieran are spending their quality time together.  She hasn’t seen him in almost a year,  _ vhenan _ ,” Caitwyn continued, glad that mother and son were able to spend time together.  Though Caitwyn couldn’t wait until Kieran dragged Morrigan to meet his friends. Morrigan loved her own son fiercely, but other children could be another matter entirely.  Caitwyn wanted to be there for that.

“So you’re telling me I have to get the goat.”  His tone was flat, and he had a resigned air about him.  The pout might have been a tad much but she declined to point that out.

“You have to get the goat,” she echoed instead, and he sighed.  The important task of observing fell to her as a matter of course, as he got the ladder and climbed up onto the roof.  She heard snatches of his muttering, along the lines of  _ bloody animal _ and  _ how did she even get up here? _

Shading her eyes as she watched the love of her life try to wrangle a goat back down to the ground, Caitwyn couldn’t help but smile.  In part because it was damned funny to watch Alistair, of all people, try to handle an animal that kept running away from him, and in part because she had been able to reclaim her life here.  Reclaim it after it had nearly escaped her grasp like water through her fingers because she had tried to hold on too tight. Instead, she had found a balance, to hold what she had without letting it drain away, to find the place between the past she had left behind and the future that she longed for.

After years of terror and heartache and never feeling settled, not even at the Vigil which had been more a fortress than anything else, after the darkness and the loss and all that she had left behind, she was finally home.

 

* * *

 

The light was perfect today, Kieran thought, and he just might finish an initial sketch.  This was the first time he had tried drawing someone like this, not little figures, but a real detailed portrait of a person’s face while they sat for him.

It would help if Mother would sit still.

“Your studies, they continue to go well, I trust?” she asked, tucking her black hair behind her ear, blown about a little by the lazy breeze that came off the water.  By the water was the best light, and he liked that he got to have time with Mother, all to himself. She had come to get him from the Chantry that afternoon, finally able to meet all the people he had been writing to her about.  She seemed to like his friends which made him really happy, though why  _ Mamae _ had insisted on coming along he couldn’t quite figure out.   She’d seemed a little rueful as Mother greeted everyone politely.

“Not bad,” he said as he bent over his drawing board again.  Mother had brought it for him, a sturdy lap-table with handy places to store all his pencils and other things.  It even had a place for more paper. “Terje showed me where I was going wrong with some math. I’d ask  _ Mamae _ , but she’s so tired lately.”

“Very thoughtful of you, my son.  T’is best to let her rest, with her time so near.  What of your other friends, they are well?” Biting his lip, he glanced back up at her to see her watching him thoughtfully with her yellow eyes and a smile on her lips.  Deftly, he traced another line, fixing how he’d drawn her jaw. 

“Yeah, though Eri and Filla are tired cause they have to help with the farm, and Dyfan’s learning to be a craftsman like his  _ papae _ .  He says he might go study with a Dalish master when he’s older, but I don’t know if they’ll let him.  Uncle Zevran says the clans aren’t very accepting of half-elves.” She sighed, shaking her head, though at what he wasn’t sure.  It could be calling Zevran  _ uncle _ , or the idea that people would restrict knowledge.  Mother did hate it when knowledge was hoarded for no reason.

“While I am happy you have friends, Kieran, your manner of speech currently leaves something to be desired,” she told him.  Her deep voice held a note of disapproval, but he didn’t think she meant it seriously. Or at least not too seriously. He shrugged.

“That’s how people talk here, Mother.  I want to fit in,” he explained absently.  He started to fill in the shadows on the drawing, fixing in his mind’s eye how the light caught in her eyes, and how the line of her nose looked at this angle. 

“There is more to life than fitting in, my son,” she said softly, so softly it made him pause before speaking.  He had gotten used to speaking loosely, to just saying things, because that was how people were here, how Da was, and how  _ Mamae _ could be sometimes, too.  When she wasn’t watching herself inside her own eyes. 

“I know, and that’s not what I meant,” he said, trying to gather his thoughts.  Playing with the pencil in his hand, he looked past her to the ocean where the deep blue waters rolled and crashed on the shore under a clear sky.  Just then Violet trotted out of the spray, a stick in her mouth. Though it was less a stick and more a substantial piece of driftwood. She joined them and summarily dropped it at Mother’s feet, an expression of canine expectation on her face.

“Your sire attempted the same games with me.  I was not fooled then, and I shall not be drawn into such games now,” Mother told Violet.  Violet whined, hanging her head and lowering her body closer to the ground. Mother sighed, “Oh very well,” and with a flick of her hand launched the driftwood a good hundred yards away, Violet running after it joyfully.

“I do miss you, Mother,” he said, drawing her attention back to him.  He regarded his drawing, suddenly not sure if he was getting the details right.  He wanted to draw her, to always have a picture of her with him no matter how far away she was.  “But I also like it here. It’s… it’s home. And I like the way I talk, and I like my friends, and I’m sorry—”

“You have nothing to be sorry for, Kieran,” Mother told him, kneeling in front of him in the long grass, covering his hands with her own.  “I am so very proud of you. T’was not an easy thing, to be here, nor learn all you have learned, but you have shown how strong you are to weather such things and remain yourself.”

He didn’t know what to say to that, but his chest feel all warm and tight.  All his parents told him that, that he was strong and brave to be himself, and he knew it meant a lot to all of them.  He thought he might understand, knowing how people tried to make themselves into what other people wanted them to be. Like how Gavin had tried to turn into his father to make his father proud, but his father had hurt him instead.  Kieran didn’t know if it really made him strong or brave, and words stuck in his throat. Luckily, Violet returned, driftwood in her mouth to drop it right next to them again, tongue lolling in pleased exertion.

“I love you, Mother.”  Those words were easy and true, and they always made her smile.    She touched her forehead to his, like she had before she had left last year, like she had done when he had been small and afraid of the dreams that came to him night after night.  She could not always be with him now, he knew that. He understood why, but that didn’t mean he didn’t wish she could always stay. That his whole family could be under one roof for always.

“And I love you, my little man,” she told him, pressing a kiss to his forehead.  Then she brushed back his hair, and smiled. “And perhaps, you could draw something for me?  A picture of the two of us? It would be a most welcome addition to my walls.”

“Of course!” he enthused, already thinking that he’d do more than that.  A whole family portrait, with  _ Mamae _ , and maybe even the baby?  He could make a placeholder and fix up the details later.  All babies kind of looked the same anyway, he thought.

Bending back over his drawing tablet he returned to his sketch and did not see the pride nor the love that shone out of his mother’s eyes.  Nor the regret, that when she left all she would have of her son would be a picture. Yet, it would be drawing made by his own two hands, a drawing of what he saw in his eyes and his heart.  In that picture she would be able to see what her son saw, the love that had built a family from the darkness.

 

* * *

 

Morrigan raised her eyebrows at Caitwyn, a silent admonishment to drink the whole of the tincture she had brewed.  Grimacing, her friend sighed and drained the glass as though she were trying to drink one of Oghren’s concoctions. At least this would be healthful, not liable to strip one’s liver and brain down to nothing.  Caitwyn pulled a face of disgust regardless, and Morrigan was amused to see how expressive her friend had become over a year since she had quit the office of Warden-Commander.

It suited her, Morrigan thought, and was glad to see it.  After all, it was not often one was able to make a life of one’s own choosing.  It made Morrigan wonder how much of her life had been laid out for her by Flemeth, if the old woman had known Morrigan would, in the end, take up the mantle of Mythal.  The spirit resided in her now, quiet, weak from being sent through the Eluvian, only reaching Morrigan after she had left this village the year past.

There was a comfort in knowing that she was no longer bound like a servant to her mother, though she wondered how long before the spirit tried to assert control.  Perhaps it would be worth investigating, to ascertain how she could maintain herself in the face of the old entity that was within her now.

“Is something wrong?” Caitwyn asked.  She shifted on the couch, trying to find a more comfortable spot.  Morrigan remembered her own discomfort, how by this time no matter what she did there was no easy rest and a sliver of a grin graced her lips.  Bearing a babe was harder than she had anticipated, though her discomfort had all been to see her friend survive. Thus, it had been worth all.

“Nothing is wrong,” Morrigan assured her, running a hand briefly over Caitwyn’s exposed belly.  She performed daily examinations since she had arrived, and she sent a tendril of magic through Caitwyn’s body to ascertain the health of the child.  A spell she had used on herself to monitor Kieran, now bolstered by the spirit that had been called Mother by an entire people. It was strange how even quiescent, the spirit bolstered her strength.  Suppressing a grimace for her errant and ill-placed thoughts, she focused on the strong heartbeat she sensed through the spell. Though the babe seemed smaller in weight than it should be, it was not enough to be concerned.  “Your child is developing well, and you are in excellent health.”

“Then what was the face about?”  Caitwyn’s tone was sharp as she handed the glass back to Morrigan before pulling her dress back over her belly and legs. 

“I did not make a face, I assure you,” Morrigan told her, but Caitwyn’s raised eyebrow and bland expression told Morrigan that her friend did not believe her.  Morrigan returned Caitwyn’s expression with a level look of her own. She did not want to bring her own troubles into this house. Indeed, she had done so already, having to leave Kieran here.  Though she knew Caitwyn loved her,  _ their, _ son with all her heart, regret lingered in Morrigan like an unwelcome guest.  Regret for her friend, having to unexpectedly take in a child, for Kieran, having to adjust to so much.   And for herself, for how much she had missed, though she and her son communicated via the book and crystal.

Caitwyn sat forward her small, dark hands holding Morrigan’s own, startling Morrigan out of her thoughts. 

“How many times have you helped me over the years?” she asked, and Morrigan shook her head, to demur, to downplay such aid.  Aid that had always come at a cost. “Doesn’t matter. I’ve lost count, because family doesn’t keep track. Family is  _ there _ , and like it or not, you are part of this family.  By your own words, no less,  _ sister _ .  So there’s no getting out of it now.  Spill it.”

Morrigan pursed her lips, only mildly annoyed at how well Caitwyn switched tracks when she saw how one avenue was closed to her.  It was what had seen them through terrible times, had guided the Wardens of Ferelden to their current, vaunted status, and had ensured that she could live the life she wanted.  There were always multiple paths to victory, Caitwyn had told her once, and seeing them was only a matter of looking. It was more than frustrating to have that same tactic employed on  _ her _ , however.

“Very well, since you have so neatly cornered me,” Morrigan replied.  Though her tone was sharp, she felt relieved. A burden, a fear shared, made such things lighter.  It was another lesson hard learned, learned with the woman who sat next to her, and there was no one else she would or could share this with.  Taking in a breath, she dove into the heart of the matter. “I have taken up the remnants of Mythal.”

“What?!” Caitwyn exclaimed as if on cue.  Her friend spoke rapidly, her accent growing stronger.  “After all that we went through to protect you from possession, and granted maybe Mythal isn’t technically your mother, but still Morrigan.  I thought you wanted a life free of all of that, and then you go and take up the spirit? Andraste’s blood, Morrigan!”

“Are you quite finished?” Morrigan asked evenly, though it gratified her to no small measure to see her friend so upset on her behalf.  Caitwyn glared at her, but did not comment, doing her best to control her breathing and remain calm.

“Only because I shouldn’t overexert myself.  For the baby’s sake,” Caitwyn replied icily. With a sharp exhalation, Caitwyn waved away her own ire once she saw that Morrigan would not be moved.  “Well, you better tell me about all of it.”

And Morrigan did.  She spoke of how the spirit had found her upon her return to Val Royeaux, how she only had vague impressions of what had driven Flemeth to send the spirit of Mythal to her, how the spirit had been weakened by its journey through the Eluvians.  It had been a knowing act, and designed to deny someone the power they sought. It would require more information, information she could find in the lost and hidden places, the secret ways that she had long since grown fond of finding.

“So I really can’t help you, can I?”  Caitwyn did not hide her resignation in the tone of her voice, nor from her face.

“You already are helping me, my friend,” Morrigan assured her, holding her friend’s gaze even as she gripped her hand tightly.  “You have given Kieran a home, a home I never could, and that is more aid than I deserved of you." The lines of Caitwyn’s face softened, her eyes glistening with tears, and she sniffed.

“Damn it, Morrigan, you’re making me cry,” Caitwyn accused, pulling Morrigan into a hug.  Morrigan allowed it, patting Caitwyn’s back soothingly.

“You are simply more emotional due to the baby.  Perfectly reasonable,” Morrigan said, though she knew that was not it entirely.  Tears prickled in her own eyes, but she blinked quickly, banishing them. Her friend did not need more tears, but she was compelled to speak, to make one final promise.  “And I swear to you, as you care for Kieran, I shall care for your child at need. If my aid is required, I promise all I have to you both.”

“Never had any doubt,” Caitwyn said, wiping away her tears and smiling, wide and true, in a way Morrigan had only rarely seen before.   “Not a one.”

What Morrigan had ever done to be worthy of such confidence, she was not sure, but she would not trade it for anything.

 

* * *

 

“You excited?” Alistair asked Kieran, his son sitting next to him on the bench of the wagon.  It was the same wagon that had brought him, Cait, and Anders to this little village. The cart they had traded away to get repairs done on the house, and now borrowed to ferry a special parcel to the house.

At the thought of the mage, Alistair wondered how he was getting on since he had left for Kirkwall.  Since no more Chantries had exploded, nor had anyone crowed of the news that the madman of Kirkwall had been brought to justice, Anders might just actually have managed to stay out of sight. 

Maybe they could risk asking Varric how things fared, but he’d talk it over with Cait before using their deaddrops.  He had no wish to repeat the discussions they’d had recently.

“So excited!” Kieran answered, his face split in a delighted grin.  Violet barked her agreement from where she sat in the cart, her massive head hanging over the edge of the cart so she could occasionally lick Kieran.  He laughed and pushed her head away, though not too strenuously. “I can’t wait until she sees it. I bet she doesn’t have a clue about it.”

“Hm, I don’t know about that.  She’s a quick one, your  _ mamae _ ,” Alistair drawled, rubbing his freshly shaved chin with one hand.  One too many pointed stares from Caitwyn had convinced him to shave, but he’d grow a beard one of these days just to literally rub her face in it.  Though he’d accept that summer had not been the best time for his most recent attempt. 

Shifting on the bench of the cart, he held the reigns loosely in his hands, the mule knowing the track they were taking.  It was just on Solace and the paler green of spring had given way to the deep green of true summer. The past month had lazily drifted by in a mix of ever hotter days and cozy, warm nights.  For the first time since he’d known her, Cait had been overheating, throwing off blankets and bedclothes, sleep a fickle thing for her now. He’d done his best to help, but sometimes all he had been able to do was open the window and talk of nothing until she finally fell back asleep.

“Yeah, but we never said a  _ word _ , not even a little bit.  Even Mother doesn’t know, though I don’t think she’d give away the surprise even if she did.  Not when it’ll make  _ Mamae _ so happy.”  Kieran nodded, as if satisfied with his own logic, and Alistair couldn’t fault him there. 

Rather than reply, Alistair glanced back at the cargo they carried.  Currently under a wrap of protective blankets, there was a crib. A crib he had built with his own two hands.  Like with Cait and her knitting, Alistair had the notion that there were certain things parents should do for their children, and making a crib was what fathers did, he thought.  It wasn’t fancy, but it wasn’t completely utilitarian either, and he hoped Caitwyn would like it. That she would see it was so much more than a crib, that it was a promise, a promise to Cait, and their child that he would be the man they needed him to be.

The man he had not been able to be for Kieran, not until this last year.

“Kieran, I want you to know something.  It’s important,” Alistair began to say, but Kieran put a hand on his shoulder, forestalling the apology that sat on the tip of his tongue. 

“It’s alright, Da.  Honest, it really is,” Kieran said, once again older than his eleven years would suggest.  They didn’t often speak about everything Alistair had missed, but with the baby due next month, he couldn’t help but feel a thread of guilt wending around his heart.  Everything the baby would have that Kieran hadn’t. But Kieran didn’t see it that way. Instead, the lad seemed happy that he had so much family now, more family than he thought possible once upon a time.  Holding up on the reigns, Alistair pulled his son into a rough, one armed hug, squeezing Violet out of the equation to much canine chagrin. 

“I’m so proud of you, son,” Alistair told him, ruffling his hair and letting him go.  Kieran huffed semi-indignantly, getting close to the age when he’d no longer allow his father to hug him so easily.  Alistair took every opportunity he could to express how much he loved his son for that reason, and because he knew he was making up for lost time.

“Thanks.  I’m proud of you, too.”  Kieran’s smile was wide and bright, too much so, Alistair thought.

“Oh, what for?” he asked cautiously.

“Finally making a crib that didn’t collapse!”  Kieran’s grin grew even wider, his whole face lighting up as he laughed at his own joke.

“Alright, that’s enough out of you,” Alistair said, clicking the mule back into motion.  The cart lurched and they were off again, headed up the track to the little house on its hill, Kieran’s high, boyish laughter ringing out over the fields of swaying grass.

 

* * *

 

The door slammed open, startling Caitwyn into dropping the simple vermin trap she had been working on.

“Hi Mother,  _ Mamae _ ,” Kieran said, and Caitwyn breathed out slowly to calm her heart.  Maker’s balls, but the boy could be loud when he got excited, which he clearly was, all bright eyes and fast movement. He first flitted to Morrigan at the table where she sorted herbs and then to herself, giving them both a kiss on the cheek by way of greeting.

“You are home early today, little man,” Morrigan commented dryly, already moving to sit beside Cait.

“Yeah, we got a surprise.   _ Mamae _ , you have to close your eyes,” Kieran ordered.  He tilted his head in Alistair’s direction as he came in through the still open door.  Alistair, in contrast to their son, was curiously quiet and still, which was altogether unlike him. 

“A surprise?  Is it a good one?” she asked, raising an eyebrow at Alistair.  With a shy grin he merely spread his hands, as if to say that she would have to determine the quality of the surprise for herself. 

“ _ Mamae _ ,” Kieran insisted, nearly whining.  Caitwyn sighed, knowing she would do as asked regardless.  It just didn’t seem right not to put up any kind of protest at all.

“Alright, alright, I’ll close my eyes once I get on the couch.  Morrigan, a bit of help?” she asked, flailing her hand peremptorily.  Morrigan helped her to stand and settle her onto the couch without further prompting.  Primly, Caitwyn closed her eyes and heard someone gathering up her trap-making supplies.  Possibly Alistair, since she could still feel the warmth of Morrigan next to her, and Kieran knew better than to touch the sometimes dangerous implements she worked with without her supervision.

“I am not allowed to know what it is either then, am I?” Morrigan asked archly.

“You’ll find out real soon,” Kieran promised, and Caitwyn tried not to sigh again.  All this production, it had her desperately curious, and that was half the reason she hated surprises.  At least this one wouldn’t be dragged out, and she considered cracking one eye to get a better idea of what was going on.  Then Kieran spoke again, “And don’t let her peek!”

“Hm, I believe I can accomplish that.”  Wry delight threaded through Morrigan’s voice, and then Caitwyn heard a low susurrus of magic from her friend.  Now she could not open her eyes, not even if she wanted to.

“Really Morrigan?  Really?” Caitwyn whispered, eliciting a low chuckle from her friend.  There were more sounds, a thump and Alistair’s voice giving directions to move this way or that, to clear a space, to uncover it.  Whatever it was, it sounded heavy, and Caitwyn felt the movement of air as if a tarp or blanket had been snapped about. At that, Morrigan’s hand curled around hers, and Caitwyn’s curiosity reached an almost desperate pitch.

“Alright, you can open your eyes now,” Kieran told her, and Morrigan tapped her temple breaking the spell.  Caitwyn opened her eyes and was not prepared for the sight that greeted her.

It was a crib. 

She stood and stepped lightly toward it, her fingers tracing the lines of it.  The frame was solid, the rounded railings were well fit, and there was already a cotton-stuffed mat placed in the bottom, ready for the knitted blanket she had finally been able to make after untold attempts.  The wood had been painted white with green vines wrapping around the rails and cross pieces to bloom into multi-colored flowers. Bluebells and blooming heather, meadow buttercups and poppies of every color, and at the headboard a perfect, red rose.  It was a simple thing, but beautiful, containing all the promise of a future she had once thought closed to her.

“So you like it then?” Alistair asked, a cautious hope in his voice.  She nodded, choking back the tears, and he placed a strong hand on her back, steady and warm.

“I love it.  It’s perfect,” she said softly, glancing up at him before marveling at the crib all over again.  It even had a little mobile of carved animals, a Mabari hound, a griffin, a halla, a fennec, a raven, all painted up and almost lifelike.  “Did Jharon finish it today?”

“Well, kind of.”  Alistair coughed, and he squared his shoulders, a quiet pride suffusing his face.  “See,  _ I _ made it.”  Caitwyn blinked as if she’d been caught on a tripwire.

“What?  When? Then why did you say—”

“Jharon helped,” he said, as that explained everything.  When Caitwyn continued to look at him as if he’d grown a second head, he sighed.  “Jharon helped me learn everything I needed to make it. Been a while at it, honestly.”

“I painted it!  It and the mobile!  Dyfan carved all the animals after I sketched them!” Kieran enthused, squeezing in between them to show off his handiwork.  Caitwyn smiled, pressing her cheek against his, her delicate fingers holding the Mabari figure out for closer inspection. The little wooden carving had Maethor’s markings, and Caitwyn’s heart lurched to think her old friend might be watching over her child, somehow.

“I can see that, Kieran, and thank you,” she told their son, but then directed her attention back to Alistair.  “You made this?”

“Yes.”  The answer was earnest, his chest still puffed up with pride.

“You.”  She pointed at him, one dark eyebrow raised.

“Yes,” he confirmed again, though his tone became somewhat short.

“Made this.”  Then she pointed at the crib, which was nothing like any of Alistair’s usual attempts at constructive labor.  This one stood up and didn’t collapse under its own weight for one thing.

“Alright, getting a bit hurtful now, love,” he told her, lip pushing out somewhere between a frown and a pout.

“I’m just a bit, well,” she fumbled, trying to find the right words.  However, her mouth could only work soundlessly as she came up empty. It was unbelievably sweet, and so very  _ him _ to do something like this, but also so entirely unexpected that she didn’t know where to start.  She had honestly thought he’d ordered something to be made, not that he’d make it himself.

“Alistair, out of curiosity, how many did you make prior to this one?” Morrigan asked, interrupting Caitwyn.  She regarded the admittedly well-constructed crib with a studiously bland expression.

“Three, but that’s not the point!” he exclaimed, voice notching higher with wounded pride.  “I wanted to make something with my own hands for our baby, like you, and this one got Jharon’s approval.  A Dalish craftsman approved, Cait—” She pulled his head down to hers and stopped his words with a kiss. Still holding his head between her hands, she gazed into his eyes, those beautiful hazel eyes as they went from indignant to confused to ultimately so full of love.  Love for her, for their child, their family.

“I love it,” she whispered to him.  “And it’s perfect.” A slow smile spread across his lips, and her heart fluttered like a bird in her chest.  Tenderly, he closed his hands over hers and stood upright, folding her into his embrace. Face pressed to his shirt, tears spilled over her cheeks.  Maker what wouldn’t she give to be able to control her emotions again, but it seemed this was one of the many joys of bearing a child. Having a good cry at the drop of a hat.  She wiped away her tears and coughed, trying to look less like a weeping madwoman. “Well, it’s not where it needs to be. Could you two fine men move it into the bedroom?”

“You heard your  _ mamae _ , Kieran, let’s go!” Alistair ordered, crooked grin on his face.  Kieran, with the same grin, straightened up smartly and saluted.

“Yes, ma’am!”  Hefting the crib between them, Alistair walked it backwards through the open door to the bedroom.  There wasn’t much room in there, but they managed to get it situated against the wall between vanity and the full open swing of the door.  As if compelled, she took up the finished blanket from its place on her vanity—a checked pattern in bright colors, alternating squares of blue, yellow, red and green of the softest yarn she’d been able to purchase—and laid it in the crib with a trembling hand. 

Caitwyn couldn’t take her eyes off the sight of the crib in their bedroom waiting for a baby to fill it.  A baby that would be swaddled in a blanket she had made to be lain a crib built by a loving father, so even out of their arms their child would be surrounded by their love.  Her heart constricted, and she drew in a shuddering breath, another round of tears coming on. Alistair held her close, and there was no denying it now. Soon, there’d be a baby in the house, and she’d hold their child in her arms.

Soon, she’d get to meet the child that slept under her heart.

 

* * *

 

Alistair brought the axe down on another log, splitting it in two.  Hard work, but good work that needed doing. After winter, he’d not been nearly as attentive to their firewood supply, the warmer weather allowing them to build smaller fires.  Come the winter, however, they’d need a good store set aside. Especially with a baby in the house, so small and needing all the warmth it could get.

Laying the axe by the stump, he picked up the split firewood and tossed it on the growing pile as the sun sank below the horizon and fireflies winked into life.  Long summer nights were good for a lot of things, and unfortunately chores seemed to be one of them. Still, it was good to get this done, and better now than in the heat of the day.  At least this way his shirt didn’t get so dirty, and he only had to roll up the sleeves.

Then he picked up another log, balancing it on the stump and lined up his next swing.

“Alistair, a moment if you would,” Morrigan said, appearing as if from thin air.  Startled, he managed to prevent the axe from swinging wild, though it caught in the log instead of cutting cleanly through.  Knowing better than to grumble at Morrigan about her timing, he let it be.

“Everything’s alright, isn’t it?” he asked.  Though he kept his voice level, there was no denying the gut clenching worry that he felt at times.  Caitwyn was getting tired more easily, and she had a hard time moving around. It was normal, Morrigan had told him, and Lunete had confirmed that, but still.  Alistair was aware of how much could go wrong, and while normally he was caught up in the joy of expecting a child, sometimes his heart stopped for fear of what could happen.

Eamon had told him that his own mother had died bringing him into the world, after all.

“As far as I can tell, yes.  Both Caitwyn and her baby are perfectly healthy,” Morrigan told him, her normally strident voice softer at the edges.  Then her bland expression and dry voice returned as if her momentary softness had never been. “However, she told me that you intend to be there, at the birth.”

“Of course.  Why wouldn’t I be?”  He frowned, taken aback by the topic of conversation.  He knew men weren’t normally in the room when women went into labor.  Not even burly farmers like Kennard who had helped birth calves and piglets and lambs.  Jharon had insisted it was women’s business, even among the Dalish. But he didn’t think he could wait outside the house while Caitwyn screamed their child into the world, doing  _ nothing _ . 

“Do you know what birth looks like?  T’is hardly pleasant.” Morrigan crossed her arms, clearly prepared to dig her heels in on the matter. 

“Well, no.  Look, I know not to expect it to smell or look like roses, but it’s not like I haven’t seen my share of blood,” he said, narrowing his eyes.   Why was Morrigan trying to talk him out of being there? Considering she wasn’t a stickler for traditions, especially if anyone attempted to apply them to her or Cait, the answer of birth being  _ women’s business _ couldn’t be it.  Or at least not the only reason why.

“No, but t’will be Caitwyn’s blood, and her body.  T’is a more grisly prospect than even you might expect.  The sight of such might  _ overwhelm _ you.”  Morrigan did not smirk at that, which was a shock in and of itself.  She still needled him a bit, though more by habit he thought than for any other reason, which was fair since he did the same.  But she wasn’t trying to do that now. Then it clicked.

“You think I’m going to faint,” he said blandly.

“In a word, yes,” Morrigan confirmed, and there it was, the smirk.

“I won’t faint!” he exclaimed, throwing his hands in the air in exasperation.  Then he saw Cyrion round the corner of the house, drying his hands from washing up after dinner.  Cyrion had been over a good deal of late, helping take care of the house, but this might be a good thing.  Surely Cait’s father would want his daughter to have help while she was in labor.

“I simply do not want her to rely on you, and then find you wanting,” Morrigan explained, nodding at Cyrion as the older elf joined them, and Cyrion returned the gesture.  That the two of them got along had thrown Alistair for a spin even as Cait had been delighted. Then Cyrion sighed.

“I have to agree,” Cyrion said, but at least he had sympathy in the lines of his face.  Alistair couldn’t believe what he was hearing. “A birthing room really is no place for a man, son.  No shame in not being there.”

“Cyrion!”  Alistair’s voice rose in pitch, and he felt wounded.  Honestly wounded. “You think I’ll faint, too.” 

“I thought I could handle it myself, when I was a young man, but I was very, very wrong.”  Cyrion shook his head sadly, but gave Alistair a sympathetic pat on the back all the same. Alistair didn’t shake off his hand, but he did lower his head, looking at the both of them from underneath knitted brows.  He would not be moved, not on this, not by anyone.

“I have been by Cait’s side through everything, damn it.   _ Everything. _  I’ll be damned if I’m not there for this,” he said, voice low and tight, his shoulders rigid, like a bull ready to charge.  At his tone, Cyrion took a step back, holding his hands up in a mock surrender. Morrigan merely raised her eyebrow and pursed her lips.  Straightening, he felt compelled to add, “And I won’t faint.”

“I’m sure you’ll do your best,” Cyrion said in a mollifying tone.  Morrigan smiled at the old elf, clearly smug that she had Caitwyn’s father on her side.

“Yes, I am sure you will try, Alistair,” she drawled, and that was about as much of that as he could take.  Throwing his hands into the air, he left the firewood where it lay. He could always pick up tomorrow before he went out for his rounds.  Back inside the house, he cleaned himself off at the basin by the light of the fire, Oak raising his head as a formality to catalogue who had entered the house. 

Gripping the rim of the basin, Alistair stared down into the water, at his own, dim reflection there.  Not much to see, and no answers to what the next month would bring, Alistair sighed and set the washcloth to the side.  On relatively quiet feet, he slipped into the bedroom he shared with Catiwyn to find her already drowsing, the blankets and bed clothes kicked off and the window shutters flung open.  He stripped off his shirt and changed into clean, warm cotton pants. He slept warm, but even he needed more than  _ nothing _ to sleep under.  Wearing the pants to bed was the best he could do to keep Cait from overheating in the middle of the night.

She stirred as he sank onto the bed, though she didn’t roll onto her side to face him, merely turning her head to regard him with sleep-heavy eyes.   Curling around her, he traced the line of her cheek and down her jaw, then lower until his hand came to rest on her belly. The baby moved a great deal now, and they both smiled at a telltale kick.  Lazily, she patted his hand and her eyes fluttered closed once more. With a kiss to her temple, Alistair hummed, a bit off-key, but soft and soothing to take something of him with her when she slept.

He’d be with her when her time came, no matter what anyone said.

 

* * *

 

Caitwyn woke, her eyes snapping open, a sharp pain lancing up through her abdomen even as she felt something warm and wet trickling down her legs.  Heart hammering in her chest, she forced her breathing to remain steady even as a wounded keen built behind her teeth. In the moonlit darkness of their bed, she reached for Alistair, asleep beside her.

“Alistair,” she said, not bothering to keep her voice quiet, and shook his shoulder roughly.  With a start, he awoke, sitting up and turning to her, his hair sticking up at odd angles. Another wave of pain took her, making her legs curl in reflex, and she breathed heavily, panting through the pain.  “I think—I think the baby’s coming.”

“It’s what?  It can’t, it’s too early, Cait,” he said, eyes widening, and he muttered, “Three weeks too early.”  He struck the flint box and lit a candle, bringing the light to their bed only to suck in a harsh breath at what he saw.  “Oh, Maker.”

“What?  What is it?” she asked, levering herself up.  Her round belly made her movements awkward and strained, but when she looked down she saw her worst nightmare in the red blood staining the bed. 


	19. In These Fearful Hours

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Trigger warning: traumatic labor.

For a moment the world stopped.  Her baby. Her baby was dying. Or already dead.  Alistair’s baby, their child, the miracle they had never expected or even dreamed of for years.  Gone before it had the chance to even breathe. In that moment, she felt everything, the cool night air on her skin as it drifted in through their open window, the soft bed underneath her, her nightshirt clinging to her body as she began to perspire. 

“No, no I am not losing this baby.”  Her voice was more even than she would have thought possible in this moment.  She looked up at Alistair, his hazel eyes panicked, but he focused on her, as he always had.  Then she felt it, deep inside of her, a cramp, her body trying to force out the baby. She hissed, curling over her belly, gritting her teeth against the pain.

Alistair wasted no time.  Flinging the door of their bedroom open, he yelled into the fire-lit gloom of their home:  _ “Morrigan! _ ”

Then he was at her side again, supporting her, holding her to his chest as pain broke over her in waves.  Her legs writhed on the bed, and she couldn’t look down, wouldn’t look down to see, refused to accept it.  But nothing could shut out the feel of the blood that ran between her legs, wet and warm and sticky. In between one cramp and the next, Morrigan was at her side, yellow eyes catching the light of the single candle that burned on the table next to the bed.  The light by which Caitwyn could see the crib Alistair had made and that Kieran had painted standing ready, waiting. Perhaps to be forever empty.

“She’s chilled,” Morrigan said, hand on Caitwyn’s taught, rounded stomach.  The witch’s face betrayed nothing, but that was telling in and of itself. She fought down a rising panic, but the next cramp hit her and she keened in agony, a high wailing cry.  “Quickly, move her to the couch. She needs to be warmed by the fire.”

“Right, yes.  I’ve got you, Cait, I’ve got you,” Alistair told her, his voice low in her ear.  One arm under her knees and the other against her back, he picked her up as if she weighed nothing.  Morrigan sped ahead of them, displacing Oak from his place by the fire and draping a clean sheet over the couch.  Then with a wave of her hand, she brought the fire into full life. Alistair moved smartly around the couch and set Caitwyn down, the heat of the fire cutting through the chill that had settled on her skin. 

With another wave of her hand, Morrigan lit lamps in the house, and in the better light Caitwyn could see the blood on her legs and nightshirt, red and thick, and she drew in a shuddering breath.  Her hand flailed, and Alistair’s hand claimed it, holding it tight. Morrigan knelt on the floor in front of her and with gentle hands nudged for her to part her legs. Caitwyn refused to move her knees apart, as if by doing so she could stop the baby from coming.  It was too soon. Three weeks too soon, but then Alistair was behind her, ever her strength.

“You’ve got to let her, Cait.  I know, I know you’re scared. Oh Maker, I know, but please, you’ve got to,” he told her, unable to disguise the quaver in his voice.  But he was right. She knew he was right. Swallowing heavily, she let her legs fall open for Morrigan to inspect the what was going on.

It was then that Kieran’s voice, so small and distant to her ears, broke into their collective panic.

“ _ Mamae _ ?  Mother?  Da? What’s happening?” he asked from the far end of the couch.  Seeing Caitwyn’s bloody shirt and legs, his eyes went as wide as dinner plates.  Morrigan glanced at her son, apparently caught for a moment, torn between admonishing the boy for lingering where he should not and wishing to reassure him that everything would be alright.  However, Morrigan had never been one to outright lie to their son.

“Kieran, you should not be here for this.  You must go to your Grandfather’s,” Morrigan told him in tones that did not brook disagreement.  Kieran, however, did not move.

“I don’t wanna go,” he insisted, tears spilling from his eyes, choking his voice.  Violet nuzzled under his hand, but his eyes were fixed on Caitwyn. “What if  _ Mamae _ needs me?”

“Little man,” Morrigan sighed, even as Alistair brokenly said, “Son, please.”

But for a moment Caitwyn was not doubled in pain from a tearing cramp, and the sight of Kieran so scared for her cut as deep as the fear that she would lose the baby.  She held her hand out for her son, and he gripped it tight, so tight, as if by sheer will alone he could help her.

“I need your help,  _ lethallin _ .”  Her voice strained on the words, the blood loss already making her thoughts muzzy and tongue feel thick and heavy in her mouth, but she swallowed her fear and squeezed Kieran’s hand.  “Need you to tell your grandpa what’s happened. Him and Nanny Lunete, alright? They need to know, and it’s up to you. Can you do that for me,  _ da’len _ ?”

“Y-yes,” he answered, lip quavering but he nodded all the same.  Caitwyn gave him the brightest smile she could manage under the circumstances, and that steeled his nerve.  He stood straighter and squeezed her hand one last time before turning to put on his boots and wrench the door open, jumping over the steps and into the night, Violet at his heels.  Oak took up position in the doorway, a watchful, guarding presence, and Caitwyn leaned back against Alistair, already exhausted.

“That was well done, my friend,” Morrigan commented softly.  Caitwyn’s head felt heavy and she nodded, only to nearly pitch over sideways.  Alistair caught her with a startled shout, and Morrigan’s voice rose in pitch as magic flared around her.  The witch laid a hand on Caitwyn’s chest, and a small burst of warming magic sank into Caitwyn’s body, compensating for some of the blood loss.

“Can’t you just heal her?  Fully? Stop the labor?” Alistair asked sharply, bracing Caitwyn against him.  Caitwyn’s head buzzed, and she had a cottony taste in her mouth, but she did feel somewhat stronger.  Morrigan’s lips pulled back in a sneer or a snarl. Caitwyn couldn’t tell. She didn’t think it mattered now.

“Not even the strongest healing magics can stop a labor once it starts.  I can fight the blood loss, and I can deliver the child, but it has begun,” Morrigan said, a flat pronouncement.  “There is no going back.”

Then another cramp gripped Caitwyn from deep inside of her, and she screamed, a tearing, jagged cry into the night.  Alistair bore her up, her rock, her touchstone, her solid place in all the world, and Morrigan bent once more to examine what was happening.  Tears of agony ran down Caitwyn’s cheeks, but the pain that wracked her body was nothing compared to the heartsick horror of what she might lose.  Of the sight of a crib that might stand empty forever.

 

* * *

 

Kieran ran through the night, the heat of summer partially swept away by the wind from the ocean, making the grass bend.  He could just see by the sliver of a moon and the light of the stars, the world around him in shades of black and grey, but he didn’t stop.  Violet ran at his side, and he remembered the last time he had run from the house, the last time  _ Mamae _ had been in danger.  He took heart from knowing that Mother was here, that Da was by her side, but Kieran’s own heart beat as if it had lost its rhythm.

There had been so much blood.

Closing his mind from that image, the image of  _ Mamae _ sprawled on the couch, blood staining the hem of her nightshirt, Da supporting her, but his hair and eyes wild.  Da hadn’t even had time to put on a shirt, and his scars stood out like white lines of tension on his back and arms.  Kieran clung to the fact that Mother was here, that Mother was a mage and she wouldn’t let anything bad happen to  _ Mamae _ or the baby. 

Legs wheeling, he sped past the village wall and made right for Grandpa and Nanny Lunete’s house, just past the village green and nestled in the middle of other modest homes.  The windows were dark, and no smoke curled up from the chimney, but it was summer and most fires were allowed to go to coals overnight. He had a brief, strange thought that he was about to be very impolite, knocking on someone’s door in the middle of the night.  Now was not the time for politeness, however, and Kieran banged on the door with the palm of his hand, striking it as hard as he could.

“Grandpa!  Nanny Lunete!” he cried, his voice high and thin in the cool air, threaded with panic.  Nothing happened, and he slammed on the door again. He didn’t have a key on him. Grandpa had given him a key, why hadn’t he thought to bring it?  He’d just run out of the house without thinking. He’d been so stupid.

Then Violet barked, the sound tearing through the night, and bringing shouts from other houses.

A candle flared to life behind a window, followed by the door swinging open.  Grandpa stood there in a hastily donned robe, bleary eyed, and his grey, shoulder length hair disheveled.  He took one look at Kieran still in his nightclothes and his feet stuffed into boots that were only barely laced up, and then the old elf guided him inside.  A moment later Nanny Lunete emerged from their bedroom in a long, shapeless nightshirt hanging down the floor, her white hair braided back away from her face.

“Kieran, lad, what’s wrong?” Cyrion asked.  Kieran fought to get his breath back taking in heaping gulps of air.

“It’s the baby.  The baby’s coming, and, and,” he spat out quickly, but then his throat closed up.  Hands clenched into fists, he knew he had to say it.  _ Mamae _ had asked him to help her, to tell her father because he was the only one who could.  “And there’s a lot of blood. Mother’s there, but I don’t know what’s going to happen.”

Grandpa’s hand tightened on Kieran’s shoulder, almost hard enough to hurt, and the older elf turned to his wife.  Nanny Lunete, however, gently touched Grandpa’s cheek and then took Kieran’s hands in her own. She looked at him with blue eyes that normally twinkled like she was about to tell a joke, but in the candlelight they were warm and deep.  Kieran’s breathing evened out, looking into eyes that seemed to  _ know _ .

“We will not go rushing out the door and show up empty handed.  We will go  _ prepared _ ,” Nanny Lunete said, and though her voice was quiet, Kieran heard the order in it.  “Kieran, you go into the chest there, gather up blankets, the warmest ones you can. Cyrion, be a dear and get some fresh water.  We’ll want it boiled and ready for when we get there. I’ll gather up my herbs and bandages.”

Kieran and Cyrion stood staring at Lunete in mild shock, but then she made a shooing motion and spoke in a firmer tone, “Well what’re you waiting for?  Go on then.”

Kieran jumped to his task, opening up the heavy wooden chest that sat against the far wall, taking out all the warmest blankets, as many as he thought he could carry back to the house.  Maybe they should get the cart and mule from Paedrick, Kieran thought. It could help and make sure they could bring all the things they could to help.

“Oh, Lunete, what happens if?” Grandpa asked in a whisper, his voice breaking.  Kieran wished he hadn’t heard that, but he bit his lip and kept facing away. If Grandpa was whispering, then he didn’t want Kieran to hear.  Besides, Mother was there. Kieran kept that in the forefront of his mind. Mother would  _ not _ let  _ Mamae _ or the baby die.

“Don’t think on that right now.  This baby is coming early, and it’s going to need all the help it can get, so we’re going to be there, alright?  We’re all family now,” Nanny Lunete said, and Kieran heard all the words she didn’t say.  _ If the baby lives _ .  Swallowing his fear, Kieran held the bundle of blankets in his arms and presented them to Grandpa and Nanny.  They managed wan smiles for him, and that made it even worse. They were trying to be strong for him, but he’d heard them all the same.

Kieran had not been raised to believe in the Maker and had never really prayed before.  He’d never understood it, really. People prayed to a god that they _ knew _ wasn’t listening.  He felt like praying now, because he finally understood.  It didn’t matter if the god or gods weren’t listening, there was the hope that just maybe they would listen to  _ you _ .   He wished he knew what words he could say that would make a god, any god, listen.

Instead, all he could do was help with his own two hands and know that it might not be enough.

 

* * *

 

“Morrigan, Morrigan you said this  _ wouldn’t happen _ !  Why?  Why is this happening?” Caitwyn cried after Kieran left, anguish lacing her words.  Tears ran down her face, tears of pain and incipit sorrow. Alistair held her, letting her brace against him, and Morrigan would have been prepared to admit that his presence would be necessary this night. 

Had she not other matters to occupy her attention.

Blood ran in a steady, thick pulse from between Caitwyn’s legs, and Morrigan spun a thread of magic through her friend’s body.  She’d done the same when she’d been giving birth to Kieran in a mountain pass, an Avvar midwife her only company. The spell had told her that her son was well and nothing unexpected had occurred.  Now, she could sense the tear between Caitwyn’s womb and the baby, leaving a bloody gash inside of her. She could sense the babe’s distress as it struggled to survive without its connection to Caitwyn’s body to support it.

“Is it my fault?”  Caitwyn’s voice was small in the night, and Morrigan gripped Caitwyn’s knee tightly to empathize her words.

“No, t’is not any fault of yours, my friend.”  Morrigan put all the truth she could muster into those words.  The contraction had passed, but Morrigan was preparing for the next one.  She drew on another area of magic, though it was not her specialty, and sank a weave of healing into Caitwyn’s body in an attempt to stem the tide of her bleeding.  The magic bolstered Caitwyn, and she used that energy to shake her head in denial. It was as if she wished to be at fault, and Morrigan snapped. “This is not your fault.  This  _ happens _ , even to healthy women ten years your junior.  This is not because you were Tainted, do you hear me?”

“Listen to her Cait.  Listen, please,” Alistair whispered in Caitwyn’s ear.  If her friend would not listen to her, then she would listen to him.  “She’d know, right? She’d know. It’s not your fault, Cait. Alright?”  Caitwyn’s face scrunched up and she managed to nod in agreement only for another contraction to draw a pained moan from her throat.  She curled forward, but Alistair held her fast while Morrigan continued to monitor the baby. Caitwyn’s body was slowly catching up to the fact that she was in labor, but not quickly enough.  If this went on too much longer, Morrigan would have to cut the opening wider to save mother and child both. Likely she would have to do so anyway.

As Morrigan examined Caitwyn and her baby, the spirit inside of her stirred.  It was a queer sensation, almost like shapeshifting when she was at the nebulous stage between two forms, her human body still present but the other form creeping along her awareness.   _ Mythal, Mother _ .  The spirit nudged at Morrigan’s mind and found no resistance–Morrigan had no thought to spare to resist–yet it did not try to control.  Rather it seemed content to understand the situation that had awoken it. Morrigan had a strange sense of doubled vision, and she saw what the spirit did: not only was the womb detaching from Caitwyn’s body, but the babe had not yet turned.

There was much to do, and little time to do it in.

“Alistair,” she barked.  “Keep Caitwyn breathing. Bear her up and keep her breathing as steadily as possible.”  The man nodded, his eyes wild and terrified, and she did not blame him. A sight such as this was enough to put terror into any man’s heart.  There was no enemy to engage but neither was there any hope of quarter or mercy. This was a fight in the dark and in blood, walking the edge between joy and sorrow, but her friend could not afford her distraction and Morrigan kept her mind on the task before her.  “Caitwyn, you must listen to him. Let him support you. There will be pain my friend, and I am sorry, but you must endure. Can you endure?”

Caitwyn gulped in air as the contraction left her weary, as more blood dripped from between her legs to stain their clothes and the sheet underneath her.  Still, she nodded, and Morrigan healed tear inside of Caitwyn’s body as best she could. The wound in her womb might open yet again, Morrigan would need her friend again would need all her strength should the worst come to pass.  Some power must be kept in reserve.

“I can, I can,” Caitwyn gasped, though Morrigan did not miss the tremble in her arms. 

“I know you can.”  Morrigan spoke softly, though she knew Caitwyn could hear her.  For a moment she regarded this woman, this woman who had trusted her time and time again, and now trusted her with the most precious thing she’d ever had.  For a moment a shiver of fear sped along her spine, fear that even for all her power and the spirit within her that she would fail. Fear that she would lose her friend, that their son would lose the mother of his heart, fear that her friend would lose all she had fought to have.

Clenching her jaw, Morrigan swallowed her fear and forced her face into smoothness.  Her friend did not need her fear in this dark and bloody hour. Her friend needed her, and if there was anything holy in the world Morrigan would have sworn by it.  Sworn she would not fail, would not betray the trust her friend had placed in her. Sworn that she would do all that was in her power to see the love Caitwyn had shown her repaid a thousand fold.

But Morrigan knew there was little holy in this world, and so she promised herself.

“There is another cramp coming, brace for it,” Morrigan said evenly, letting nothing of her qualms show. 

Caitwyn screamed.

 

* * *

 

Alistair held Caitwyn as she cried out, pain heaped on pain.  Her blood stained his pants, making them stick to his legs, and she had sweat through her nightshirt.  But he braced her as best he could. Even so, he could feel the tremble in her arms, the quiver in her body.  It hadn’t been long, but she had lost so much blood. She was growing weaker by the second.

The blood and the terror, there was an echo over the years to the Tower of Ishal, where he had met her but hours before, holding her in his arms as she bled to death, determined to not let her die alone at least.  They had been so young then and now, now her life’s blood was on him again and he held her in the night. It wasn’t darkspawn that threatened to take her away this time. It was her own body. The very thing she had feared from the start was coming true, and he knew if this didn’t kill her losing the babe might destroy her heart no matter what Morrigan said.

Her breathing shortened again, and she arched up against another wave of pain, as if she could somehow get away from the agony inside her own body.  Alistair’s heart lurched, and it cut him worse than any blade to have to watch, to watch as Caitwyn fought and he could do little more than be here. Her head thrashed against his chest, and her eyes were shut tight, but what worried him more was how she seemed to hold her breath every time the pain took her.

“Breathe, love, breathe, you can do this, you’re so strong, love,” he told her, hoping, praying that his words were of any use.  She nodded, and let out a long, unsteady breath, and then tried to breathe in, but then another wave shook her.

“Morrigan, Morrigan you save my baby,” she ordered.  Then a scream tore from her chest, her fingers gripping his hands tightly enough to grind the bones together, but he didn’t complain.  What was that compared to what she was going through? The wave of pain passing, she collapsed heavily against him and let out a desperate, plaintive sob.  “Please, please save her. Do whatever you have to do, but save her.  _ Please _ .”

Alistair choked back a scream of his own.  He knew what she meant, to trade her life for their child’s, and his heart turned to a leaden lump in his chest.  Glancing down, he saw Morrigan staring at him from where she knelt in front of Cait, yellow eyes boring into his own.  Cait’s eyes were still closed, and Morrigan glanced at Cait, then meaningfully to her belly before returning her glare to him.

Mouth dry, Alistair could only tip his head toward Cait.  Not a word was spoken, but by Morrigan’s nod he knew she understood.  Cait came first, Maker help him. He knew what the Chantry taught, that the babe should be saved.  He would have to live with this choice, live with her anger if she ever found out, live with her heartache and sorrow, but he would rather have her with all that than live in a world without her.  And even then, nothing could help the guilt that crawled along his belly or the tears that made his vision swim. He wanted to say something to her, to reassure her, but nothing came out.

“T’will not come to that, my friend,” Morrigan told Cait with more conviction than Alistair would have had at this point.  Morrigan laid a hand on Cait’s leg sending a thrum of healing magic through her, and Cait seemed to rally. She opened her eyes and inhaled deeply, her arms no longer trembling.  He pressed his lips to her temple, and she leaned into him and glanced up, searching for reassurance form him as well.

“You’re doing so well, I’m so proud of you, and I love you so much,” he said, hoping his smile wasn’t as sickly as he felt.  His stomach twisted, but it seemed to be enough for her. Caitwyn nodded, girding herself to endure.

“I’m doing well, doing well,” she repeated, clinging to those assurances for all she was worth.  If that helped her, then it was far from either himself or Morrigan to take it from her. Then she tensed, but did not cry out.

“We are coming to the end, now.  You just felt the need to push, did you not?” Morrigan asked.  Caitwyn nodded, not able to spare the breath to speak as she let out a low, keening moan.  Morrigan patted Cait’s leg gently, and Alistair adjusted his hold on Cait. He held her securely, a lump in his throat, but he couldn’t let her know how afraid he was.  She needed him to be strong; he had to be the strong one this time. “Do so but gently. The baby is coming feet first, so we must be careful. The smallest pushes you can.”

“You can do this, Cait.  I’ve got you.” His eyes flickered to Morrigan, who returned his glance briefly, her eyes bright in the firelight.  “We’ve got you,” he corrected, and that seemed right. Caitwyn nodded again, her dark hair coming loose from her braid, strands of hair sticking to his chest.  

“Alistair, bring her forward,” Morrigan instructed.  He shuffled Cait to the edge of the couch and stopped when Morrigan held up her hand.  Cait hung half off the couch now, and he held her as tight as he thought he could without hurting her more.   He could feel Cait tense, either because the movement had hurt or because she could sense another wave of pain coming for her.  Or both. Morrigan’s hand glowed, and she sent more magic into Cait. His days as a Templar were far behind him, but even he could see Morrigan was tiring.

They all were, but that didn’t matter.  All that mattered right now was Cait and the baby. 

“Push now, little pushes.”  Morrigan’s voice was gentle, and Alistair breathed deep for Cait to match him.  The love of his live breathed out in pained huffs, and Alistair gave her all the strength he had.

 

* * *

 

Caitwyn pushed, small pushes while her body wanted her to bear down, but she fought, oh, Maker, she fought.  Alistair held her upright, and she knew if he wasn’t here she would have collapsed already. Without him or Morrigan Caitwyn would have lost the will to endure long ago, amidst the fear that gripped her heart like an icy claw and the fiery agony that tore at her body.  But she held on. Her baby needed her to hold on.

The world narrowed down to the cramping pain in in her womb, the stretching, tearing pain between her legs, Morrigan’s cool voice, and Alistair’s strength bearing her up.  That was all she knew, all she could know.

“Another push, another little push.”  Morrigan’s mantra was one of the few steady things in her world, a steady beat in time to the sound of Alistair’s heart under her cheek.  She panted out the pain, barely allowing herself to push, and then something felt different. Her own body felt alien to her, a riot of sensation that she could barely come to terms with before everything changed again, and all of it painful.  But it felt like a tiny bit of pressure had been released, like something that ever so slightly eased out of her.

“There it is, there it is,” Morrigan said, and Caitwyn wanted to look down, to see what was happening, but she couldn’t.  Alistair dipped his head, his forehead against her temple, his voice in her ear.

“You are doing so well, Cait, I love you so much, you can do this.  I’ve got you, Cait, we’ve got you.” He told her that over and over, voice steady because she needed it to be steady, she needed him to be solid and real and there.  His voice reached down into her heart and held her fast, and she found the strength to keep going.

“There, the body is born,” Morrigan pronounced, though she did not take her eyes off her task. Caitwyn jerked forward, wanting to see, wanting to know.  Alistair held her back, however, and she didn’t have the strength to pull away from him. She was still precariously perched on the edge of the couch, and the thought that she might’ve fallen off only belatedly occurred to her.  The only thing she could think of was seeing her baby, holding it, letting the child be real and whole and healthy. Only when she felt her child in her arms would this be over. Until then, she was caught in the terror of the unknown, a mother and not at the same time.

“What is?” she tried to ask, but her throat was dry and scraped raw from her screaming.  Morrigan gripped Caitwyn’s knee tightly, and sent another pulse of warm healing magic through her.  Caitwyn did not know much longer Morrigan could keep this up, delivering the baby and keeping Caitwyn from bleeding out, and she felt slightly less restored every time.  Cait swallowed heavily, and Alistair’s whole body tensed behind her. Still, his breathing was even, a guide for her to follow, and let out another breath, slowly through her mouth.

“You are going to want to push, but you must not.  This will feel strange, but this will help baby breathe,” Morrigan said, and Caitwyn felt a pinch and a movement inside of her, but she couldn’t connect what was going on, her lower body too full of pain to single anything out.  “Now, one more, one more gentle push.”

Caitwyn breathed in deep, and though she felt lightheaded she pushed.  Then she felt it, felt the baby leave her body. She was empty. Empty and exhausted.  But then she heard it. The silence. Her heart constricted as if crushed under a glacier, under tonnes of ice and snow, creaking and cracking overhead while she was alone in the dark and cold, crushed and ground to dust.  She tried to rise, but Alistair held her fast. His arms wrapped over her chest and held her to him. But he had heard it too, and he shivered with tension even as he tried to be steady.

Their baby wasn’t breathing.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> For those who are curious about the clinical diagnosis, what’s happening to Cait is a placental abruption and breech birth. When this happens, its scary with even modern medical technology, and happened to someone I know IRL. Yiiiiiikes.


	20. Those Who Ever Wanted

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Trigger warning: baby not breathing when born

“No, no,” Caitwyn pleaded, though she wasn’t sure who she was saying no to.  The world, the Maker, Andraste, Morrigan. Anyone and anything she could think of.   Alistair’s breath caught and his fingers dug into her shoulders. Together they watched Morrigan with avid eyes as her dearest friend held her baby in one arm and closed her mouth over the baby’s mouth and nose.  She sucked and then raised her head up to spit something away, but the baby was still silent. Without a second spared, Morrigan flipped the small body onto its stomach and rubbed its back in vigorous, circular motions.

“Come now, little one,” Morrigan whispered, and Caitwyn wanted to stopper her ears, wanted to never have heard those words.  But she couldn’t look away. If her child,  _ their _ child died, she would at least bear witness, witness to the life she had carried inside her for a time.  Even if it turned her heart to stone, even if it killed a part of her she had only just learned existed this year past.

“You mother is a fighter, little one,” Morrigan exhorted, still rubbing the baby’s back.  It was so small, Caitwyn thought, so small. Too small. “Your father is a fighter. You will fight, too.” 

Chest constricting painfully as if the weight of the ocean pressed down on her, Caitwyn held stock still, rigid with an unbearable tension.  Behind her, she heard Alistair’s breathing go shallow, nearly panicked, but he held her close, her rock, her touchstone, not letting her face this alone.  They clung to each other as if they had been cast overboard in a storm. There was no battling the will and whim of the indifferent fates, only the knowledge that death might crash through their world no matter what they wished, no matter what they had done.

Then Morrigan turned the baby back upright, its limbs horrifyingly limp, and she opened her mouth breathing out over the baby.  Her breath was a white wisp in the firelight, and it rushed up through the baby’s nose and mouth inflating its tiny chest. Caitwyn could not tear her eyes away, and Alistair stopped breathing entirely as they waited.  Waited in silence, trembling together now, fear and hope an untamed tempest that swept them into the darkest, deepest terror they had ever known.

No demon or monster in human form, no darkspawn or cruelty could compare to this, to the agonizing anticipation of losing the life their love had made.

The small body was horrifically still for a terrible, frozen moment longer, but then her baby’s limbs twitched.  Caitwyn blinked, not sure if it had been a trick of the flickering firelight, and a heartbeat later the tiny chest moved down then back up again.  Then, oh then, it cried. A high wailing cry that streaked through the night like a falling star. Caitwyn had never heard anything so beautiful and glorious in her life.  Like she had been tossed by the waves back to the shore, Caitwyn sobbed with relief, and she found the will to move. Arms extended, she reached for her baby. Her baby, hers to love and watch grow, her little marvel and miracle.   _ Hers _ .

“You have a daughter, my friend,” Morrigan said as she laid the tiny bundle in Caitwyn’s arms.   The weight of her daughter felt like it was always meant to be there. Caitwyn’s breath caught in her throat, and she gingerly touched the tip of her finger to her daughter’s nose, so small, so perfect.  She held her daughter to her, keeping the small body warm with her own body heat.

Her daughter in her arms, the future flowed out.  The next days came like the first drops of a summer rain, one, then the next, and then the next until it was a deluge.  A flood of possibility that swept forward, the river of her life carving a new course out of the earth.

Caitwyn would not let go of her daughter for two days, two days greedily holding the small form to her body, no matter how Morrigan cajoled her.  She would wake the moment anyone tried to take her, unwilling to let go and have her daughter vanish like a dream. But on the third day she would wake after an exhausted sleep to see Alistair holding his daughter, gazing at her small form completely enchanted, and Caitwyn would fall in love with him all over again as watching father and daughter together made it all real and solid and true.  He would grin at her, that crooked grin, tears in his eyes for being able to hold something so perfect in his arms.

“ _ Elgara vallas, da'len, Melava somniar _ ,” she would sing to her daughter, holding babe to breast in their bed, hazy days of too little sleep but such fragile wonder.  Or Alistair’s lower voice, “ _ The water is wide, and I cannot go o’er _ ,” as he rocked his daughter to sleep, her fever finally breaking.  They would lay awake to watch her to sleep swaddled in the blanket Caitwyn had made, laid in the crib Alistair had built and Kieran had painted, bright and beautiful.

The Harvest Festival would come again, and Caitwyn would beam like a newly risen sun over the water as the other village women exclaimed delightedly at the daughter she had brought into the world.  Summerday would dawn gloomy but the afternoon would be clear, and Caitwyn and Alistair would dance on the village green with no thought of what they had nearly lost that day a year previous.

Their daughter would prove to be intrepid, crawling and hiding and getting into trouble faster than anyone thought possible, and Cyrion would laugh.  He would say it served his daughter right, for having been such a handful herself. 

“Come to Da,” Alistair would say one day, arms held out as their daughter toddled on unsteady legs on the floor of their home.  Her delicate, freckled features scrunched up in concentration as she half-fell half-walked forward. Then she would fall into his arms to be turned around, and he would say, “Now go to  _ Mamae _ .”  And Caitwyn would hold her arms out for her daughter, catching her up when she came close, exclaiming excitedly, “You walked,  _ da’len _ !”

Their daughter’s silvery laugh would ring throughout the house as the dogs licked food off her face, and she did not try very hard to push them off of her.  And Kieran, gawky at thirteen, a loving big brother, carrying his little sister piggy-back as they played with his friends in the field behind the house. Their daughter would adore her big brother, her cries going quiet and tears drying up as soon as she caught sight of his familiar smile and shock of black hair.  Their son would read to his little sister, read to her about far off places full of monsters and adventure, and he would draw her as the hero of her own story, his sketches held tight and precious by small, clutching hands.

The house, the house needing repairs, Alistair taking the time to learn what he could from the men in the village, though the porch he promised her ever failed to materialize.  “Next summer, I promise,” he would say, and she would look up at him and smile. “Next summer of course,” she would reply, and kiss him, and the kiss would turn into something else, the children out of the house for the day.

They would see their daughter off to her first lessons at the Chantry, and not long after would see their son to a ship, bound for a city where he could pursue his art, promising to write, to return home when he could.  Letters home, a bright future for a young man, a future without darkspawn or gods or impending doom. A life of his own, of his making and choice. All a mother could hope for her son.

Not all would be light or easy.  Caitwyn would watch her father grow sick one winter, and then grow sicker.  No healing could change old age, no remedy for a man who had lived his years hard, working to give his daughter everything he could.  He would return to the Maker on a sunny day, and she would think he would have liked that. Lunete, losing her third husband, would give up her position as mayor, and life ran ahead again.

“They think  _ I _ should run for mayor, me!” Alistair would protest, but Caitwyn would smile and remind him, “You’ve been the sheriff for years.  They trust you. What’s the worst that could happen?” He would laugh, shake his head, and remind her about him leading resulting in no pants.  She would teasingly ask why that was such a bad thing.

He would win.

Not a king, but a good man, doing small things for small people in a small place.  It was more than they had ever dreamed.

Their daughter would leave too one day, to challenge the University of Orlais, to explore and learn and grow in ways Caitwyn had never dreamed of for herself.  She would leave a girl with all her father’s bravery, her mother’s confidence, and her  _ mamae _ ’s cleverness, a cleverness allowed to take root and bloom in ways that had been denied to all her parents.  She would return a woman with adventures of her own, battles won and lost, and new things discovered.

And one day Caitwyn would run her hand through Alistair’s once ruddy hair, and she would say, “You’re getting grey, old man,” and he would smile.  Returning the gesture, her own hair more silver than the dark tresses it once had been, and he would tell her, “So are you, old woman.” Past fifty, past the time they should have been Called down into the dark they could stay, stay in the light, in their home, where their children came home with children of their own, the house overflowing.

Time running like a river to the end.  They would come to that final day frail and delicate, but still in love, so in love.  Morrigan would return, looking as she had decades ago, the powers she had inherited a blessing and curse, and she would see them to their end.  Alistair asleep beside the woman at whose feet he had laid his heart, she who had known it for the treasure it was, both of them sleeping more and more, Caitwyn would ask, “Did I do it?  Did I live gloriously?”

And Morrigan would smile, the same smile she always had, still-strong hand gentle on skin that had become paper thin, “You have, my dearest friend, my sister, you have.”

They would die within hours of each other, their children there to see their bodies burned, given to the Maker.  Morrigan would start the fires herself, insisting it better to burn the home than let it be spoiled by time. She would stand with one arm around the son of her body, the other around the daughter of her breath, and they would watch the home Caitwyn and Alistair had built burn around them.  The smoke would carry them somewhere far away where perhaps, if there was some kindness in the world, they could be together forever.

But that was the future.  Now, in a little house on a hill by the sea, Caitwyn Tabris held her daughter in her arms, small and perfect.  Her chest swelled with love like a rising tide, love for the life she and Alistair had made together, the life she borne into the world with her very blood, the life Morrigan had saved.  One last time, three in the dark became four, but this time a joy for what could be, not a fear of what was.

“Alistair,” Caitwyn said, forcing herself to look away from the baby and into Alistair’s eyes.  “Alistair, we have a daughter.”

“Yes,” he said, voice breaking, but not from sorrow or fear this time, but with tumultuous relief and wonder.  “Yes, we do.” He reached out, his hand shaking, and he stroked one soft, dark cheek. Their daughter squirmed at the touch, her mouth opening on instinct. 

With Alistair peering over her shoulder, they started to notice all the little, perfect details about her.  Ten perfect little fingers, and ten perfect little toes, with perfect little nails already formed. She was a small baby, born weeks too early and would need careful attention in the days ahead.  But for now, Caitwyn drank in the sight of her, and while their daughter’s skin was perhaps only a shade or two lighter than her own, she had a hint of freckles on her cheeks, and a few, wispy tufts of curly hair.  Then Cait frowned, noticing something strange. 

Their daughter’s ears were pointed.  That should not have been possible. Craning her neck, she shot Alistair a worried glance, because this meant that the woman he thought had been his mother was not.  She had to have been an elf, not a human, and Alistair himself elf-blooded for their daughter to look like an elf.

“Alistair, I’m sorry, I know how much—” she said, but he shook his head.

“I have all the family I need right, here, Cait,” he told her, tracing a finger along her jaw and kissing her softly on the lips.  “Right here.”

Caitwyn sighed contentedly and leaned back against Alistair.  With tired eyes, she regarded Morrigan who was already cleaning the remnants of the bloody work of birth.  The witch conjured some water in a basin, and drew the blood away from their clothes and furniture with a wave of her hand, staining the water red.  With another gesture, the basin refilled with clean water, and Morrigan then dipped a cloth into it, and knelt in front of Caitwyn again. While Cait desperately wanted to be clean herself, there was something that had to be done first.

“Thank you, Morrigan.  I’ve said that so many times,” she told her friend, her sister.  “But this… this is… You gave her life, Morrigan. You breathed life into her.”

“I only did what was necessary.  I made you a promise not long ago, my friend, to the both of you,” Morrigan said, attempting to be brusque but there was a warm note in her voice all the same.  Caitwyn shook her head, trying to lean down to reach her friend, but she felt so weak. Instead, all she had left to her were words, and they spilled out.

“Morrigan, you did more than what was necessary, you helped bring her to life, and for that—for that you’re her mother as much as I’m Kieran’s.  They’re  _ our _ children,” Caitwyn insisted.  Her voice shook for the ferocity of the truth she had to make Morrigan understand, with the chest-cracking love that she bore for the woman who had given life to the baby as surely as Caitwyn had.  Morrigan looked at Caitwyn with those opaque yellow eyes for a long moment, but the crackle of the fire and the susurrus of nighttime insects were all she could hear. 

“I, that is to say,” Morrigan faltered.  She rose up on her knees to peer at the small, sandy haired bundle in Cait’s arms, and her friend’s face broke into a slow, quiet smile.  “I confess I do love her. How could I not, for she is ours, my friend. My dearest friend.”

“Hm, well, then, welcome to the family, Morrigan,” Alistair said, his voice holding a slightly teasing note, but also more sincerity than anyone would have thought twelve years prior.  “Bloody weird family, but what family isn’t?”

Morrigan snorted derisively at the remark, but declined to comment.  Instead, she returned to attending to the afterbirth, healing Caitwyn as much as possible.  It was not much, Caitwyn could feel that, but the pain was blunted, and she knew Morrigan would not leave her in any danger of bleeding out.  Morrigan’s skin had a sheen of sweat, Caitwyn noticed, and it was not surprising after the other woman had spent so much of her energy keeping Caitwyn alive and stealing the baby back from the jaws of death.  Perhaps, they all had a debt to Mythal now, for without old goddess’s power, would any of this been possible tonight? Caitwyn did not know, but whatever the reasons, she was beyond grateful for the life she held to her beast.

“Indeed.  Now, you must stay warm, for you and the baby,” Morrigan said, briskly moving past the sentimental moment.  She motioned for them to move back, and Alistair, refusing to leave Caitwyn’s side, simply moved them back to the far end of the couch.  Morrigan grabbed a blanket that had fallen to the floor and tucked it around Caitwyn and the baby. Closing her eyes briefly, Caitwyn let her daughter’s weight settle on her chest as she let herself be held by Alistair.  He held her close, strong arms around her, one large hand gently resting on their daughter’s head.

Then Oak barked, and all three turned to see Kieran suddenly in the doorway, and not a step behind him was her father, his complexion wan and greenish with fear.

“Mother?” Kieran asked, voice high and soft, curious, a shiver of worry in it.  “Mother, can we come in? We heard the baby cry, but then it was all quiet.”

“You may,” Morrigan allowed, though there was a tone of caution in her voice.  “Your  _ mamae  _ is very tired.  It was a difficult delivery.”  The other woman stepped back, allowing the others to approach.

“Oh Cait, my little firebug.”  Papa spoke quietly, and his face suffused with wonder as he ushered Kieran through the door.  Lunete followed them, just a little behind her husband with her hand on his back. The plump little mayor looked as if she had come prepared to assist in the birth, laden down with containers of water and herbs and bandages, and Caitwyn was touched that her father’s wife would go to such effort for her.

“You have a granddaughter, Papa, Lunete,” Cait told them, including the woman who had let her father find love again.  Though Cyrion’s face was lined from years of worry for her and grief for her mother, those lines gave his smile more heart, more life, for all he had endured to see this.  To see something he thought he never would, his daughter settled and grandchildren to his name. Something he thought impossible when she left the Alienage all those years ago.

“More importantly, I still have my daughter,” he said.  Leaning over the back of the couch he pressed a kiss to her forehead and tucked a stray lock of hair behind one ear.  “Your mother would be so proud of you, right now.”

“Thank you, Papa,” she said, tears in her throat again, unable to stop them.  Lunete then fluttered closer, peering at the small form. 

“She’s going to be just fine, don’t you worry about a thing,” Lunete assured her, patting Caitwyn’s arm.  “I’ve seen many a babe through in my time. You won’t be alone, Caitwyn.”

“Thank you, Lunete,” Caitwyn said, the grin now a permanent fixture on her face.  Then she shifted slightly, allowing Kieran to see the baby as he knelt on the floor next to the couch.  “And Kieran, you have a little sister.”

“You ready for that, son?  To be an older brother?” Alistair asked gently as he cupped the back of his son’s head with his free hand.  His voice dripped with the delight that he could hold all that he loved in the world in a single moment. Kieran nodded.

“I’m going to be the best older brother  _ ever _ ,” Kieran promised, looking up at his father, and then he glanced at his mother.  Morrigan gave her son a brief smile and nodded, as if giving him permission to stay where he was.  Then Kieran very gently touched the baby, one finger tracing down one small arm, and when he got to her hand, she grabbed his finger and held on tight.  The movement made them all smile, and Kieran leaned in closer.

“I promise, I’ll always take care of you,” he whispered to his little sister with all the conviction and surety of an eleven year old boy.  Caitwyn smiled, and drawing Kieran’s head forward she kissed his brow, her son, their son, with his well-deep heart and crooked smile and clear eyes. 

“I know you will,” Caitwyn told him, and he grinned proudly at her, at his father, at his mother.  Morrigan returned the smile, but remained where she was. Ever keeping herself just that touch apart, but Caitwyn knew that Morrigan would always stand ready if there was a need.  She was a part of this family, after all.

“Alright now, Cait, you’ve kept us in suspense long enough,” Papa admonished lightly.  “What’s her name?”

“Yeah, what’s her name,  _ Mamae _ ?” Kieran echoed, and even Morrigan drew a touch closer, eager to know the name of the child she had breathed life into but moments ago.  Cait glanced back up at Alistair, eyes crinkling with delight, and he regarded her in return with a similar expression. Between them they recalled the times spent in the dark of their room in their bed, when it had all become real, the baby growing in her belly, whispering names back and forth like talismans of a dreamy future.  What to name a boy, what to name a girl, giddy in the chance to choose such things.

“Go on, you tell them,” he told her softly, gently, full of wonder for the miracle she held in her arms. 

“Everyone, I would like you to meet Rhiannon,” she said, stroking the fine hair on Rhiannon’s head.  Then she looked up, shifting her daughter as though she could see all present.

“Rhiannon, this is your family,” Caitwyn said, green eyes shining with a joy she thought she would never know.  To hold this child in her arms, to have the man she loved, and the family they had built in their house on a hill by the sea.  “This is your home.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> You might've noticed the fic has 21 chapters now. A Super Secret Epilogue is just after this, and even better its already posted. Just one more, folks, then it ends.


	21. Epilogue – To Venture Forth

Rhiannon couldn’t breathe.

“Da, Da,” she croaked, trying to wiggle out of her father’s crushing hug.  “Air, need air.”

“ _ Vhenan _ ,”  _ Mamae _ admonished, tugging on Da’s shoulder.  She glanced at Rhiannon, a look of  _ well what did you expect? _ in her green eyes, the same eyes Rhiannon had.

“Right, sorry,” Da said quickly, letting her go.  Rhiannon sucked in a grateful breath, and Da’s brows knit in a wounded expression at her act.  But there were tears in his eyes, even though his smile was bright and proud. “Just gonna miss you so much, pup.”

They gathered together just across from where the docks jutted out into the sea, the wide promenade of Gwaren’s cobblestone strand busy with people going about the business of a thriving port.  Da and  _ Mamae  _ had come with her down from Devon-by-Sea, arriving in the city yesterday.  Kieran had already been here to meet her, and they’d all had a family dinner last night just like when she’d been little.  He’d sailed in from Val Royeaux, taking time away from his own studies and art to travel with her.

“And I’m going to miss you, too Da, but the University doesn’t accept many fifteen-year-olds, and they’ve never accepted a fifteen-year-old  _ elf  _ before.”  Excitement shot through Rhiannon’s every word.  She bounced on her toes eager to be off, but she knew she should say proper good-byes. 

“Not to mention the Kenric Scholarship,” she and Kieran said at the same time, her brother leaning down next to her and mimicked her tones.  She pouted at him and poked him in the ribs. He laughed, slinging an arm around her shoulders. It wasn’t fair that he was so tall, as tall as Da.  Rhiannon comforted herself that although she was shorter than her giant father and brother, she wasn’t as tiny as  _ Mamae _ .

“And we’re very proud of you,  _ da’len _ ,”  _ Mamae  _ said.  She tugged Rhiannon to her, enfolding her in another hug.  In spite of  _ Mamae _ being so small, Rhiannon had always felt safe in her arms, and she closed her eyes tight fighting back a few tears.  But only a few. She was supposed to be excited about going, not sad about leaving home. After a moment,  _ Mamae _ let her go, though not entirely, her hands still on Rhiannon’s arms.  “And you mind your mother. She’s not always in the city, but if she tells you to do something—”

“I do it right away, I know,  _ Mamae _ ,” Rhiannon said with a sigh and rolling her eyes.  Rhiannon knew better than to point out that Mother, the woman who had delivered Rhiannon and breathed life into her moments after she had been born, would most likely expect Rhiannon to handle herself. Val Royeaux would be worlds different from the little village life she had known, she knew that, but Rhiannon had learned a lot from all her parents.  She’d like to see someone just try and pick her pocket. They would be in for a surprise, for sure! 

“Casting off!  All aboard!” came the bellowing call.  The first mate of  _ The White Gull _ , the ship they’d purchased passage on, cupped his hands around his mouth and harangued all passengers within ear shot that the time to leave was now.  Rhiannon’s belongings were already on the ship, and now that just left her to pack herself off. Off and away.

“Oh, Rhia, _lethallan_ , I love you so much,” _Mamae_ said, giving Rhiannon one last, brief hug, and tracing the line of her freckled cheek with one delicate hand.

“Love you, sweetheart,” Da said, pressing a kiss to her head, and Rhiannon fought not to cry.  This was stupid, she was  _ happy _ to be going.

“Love you both,” she said sniffing, and then coughed, refusing to do more than that.  She wasn’t a little girl anymore, and didn’t want to act like it either. Da and  _ Mamae _ hugged Kieran, admonishing him to come home more, and Kieran promised he would.  Then Kieran disentangled himself from their parents, and he and Rhiannon trotted across the promenade and up the gangplank.

Rhiannon dashed to the rail of the ship, her dark, sandy curls blowing about her face in the ocean wind, and she saw  _ Mamae _ and Da standing where she had left them, beaming up at her.  She could swear she could feel their pride and love, even from here, and her fingers tightly gripped the dark-stained wood of the railing. 

Kieran stood beside her, his black hair tied back, and an understanding smile on his face.  She leaned against him, her big brother, her first defender and oldest friend. He knew better than to say anything as the small boats tugged them away from the docks.  The figures of their parents grew smaller and smaller as they went further and further out, and before she lost sight of them entirely, Rhiannon raised her arm and waved. 

She could just make out their return gesture before the ship rose to meet the rolling ocean proper as they left the safety of the harbor.  The crew scrambled over the rigging, letting the sails boom open, and the ship lurched, driven forward by the strong southerly winds, and the ship careened into the sea.  A smile broke over Rhiannon’s face as the ship rode the swells, and the salt spray tickled across her face.

“Well, you ready for the big wide world, Rhia?” Kieran asked, leaning against the railing as he smiled down at her.  She tore her eyes off the vista before her to grin up at her brother. It was a sharp grin, her canines more pointed like all elves, and she held her wild curls back from her face with one hand.  Her green eyes glinted with all the self-assured pride of a girl who had grown up loved and unafraid in a world her parents had fought to make for their children.

“Kieran,” she drawled, “the world better be ready for me.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thus, the end. Thank you so much to everyone who read this far too long fic (though it's called The Long Way Home, it would be odd if it were short, I suppose), and extra special thanks to everyone who left kudos and comments. Much love. <3
> 
> If you enjoyed Caitwyn's so-called "final" story, go back to the beginning with her series [Wed to Blight](https://archiveofourown.org/series/879681). It charts her growth from a tiny kid in the Alienage to a slightly less tiny Warden-Commander in snippets. Mostly, it's me nailing her story down bit by bit and being entirely self-indulgent. ;)
> 
> Slight behind the scenes amusement, I picked Rhiannon as a name because it fit with Caitwyn's Celtic/Gaelic theme, but also because it was the name of a Celtic Queen. My own little joke that baby Rhiannon is, technically, one of the heirs of the Fereldan throne. Okay, it amused _me_. 
> 
> Again, very many thanks to everyone! Take care out there.


End file.
